Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was cold.

Miles grumbled, curling up in a tighter ball. He haphazardly grasped for his blanket, wincing as half-healed aches came to life. He had to stop pushing himself so hard on patrols. He reached down further with a sigh, unable to find his blanket. Had he kicked it off the bed?

Could he be bothered to get up and grab it?

Shifting onto his back, he propped an arm under his head and tried to relax. Yet, no matter how he settled, he couldn’t get comfortable. The thin support offered by the dorm room mattresses left a lot to be desired. Sighing, he gave up. He was awake now. He might as well get ahead of his homework.

Opening his eyes, he froze.

That wasn’t his ceiling. He would know - he had cleaned a lot of footprints off of it.

His chest tightened with panic, and he struggled to take a deep breath. He attempted to sit up in a rush, only to regret it as his vision swayed. Squeezing his eyes shut and propping an arm against the wall - a wall? - he fought down a dry heave.

The last thing he could remember was swinging through New York, somewhere around Midtown. He had swung through a cloud of steam, his spider-sense ringing, trying to find the source. Had he fallen for a trap?

Nausea subsiding, he slowly blinked his eyes open, staring at his legs. He was still in his suit. Whoever had him, they hadn’t taken it off. And it had been on for a while if the uncomfortable chafing of his thighs was any indication.

It was scuffed and small sections had torn away. Some of it was familiar - he hadn’t been patching his suit as often as he should… most of it wasn’t. Had they dragged him along the ground? Had anyone seen it happen?

Gloved fingers shaking, he slowly reached up and touched his face.

It was gone.

His mask was gone. They knew his face. Whoever they were.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he leaned against the wall, curling in on himself, biting down on his lip. Tears stung his eyes, a well of hopelessness spilling over.

They knew who he was.

“Please,” Miles mumbled under his breath, barely even spoken words, a rush of air. “Don’t hurt my Mom and Dad. Please, they don’t have my powers. They don’t know.”

Pathetically sniffing, exhaustion overwhelming him, he wanted to go back to sleep and wake up in the morning listening to Ganke play his stupid games, and do homework, and help an old lady cross the road. He wanted this to be a nightmare so bad it ached.

But he couldn’t give up yet. He didn’t know what they knew.

Taking a shuddering breath, he forced himself to sit up and take in his surroundings.

He was in a prison cell. The only furnishings were the bed (it didn’t even have a pillow or blanket, he noted with indignation) and a sad little toilet. The door loomed large in the small room, sporting two extra features - a flap at the bottom and a small window at the top. A blinding streak of light illuminated the room, the only light source. Glancing up, he found no lightbulb. If someone covered the window, he would be left in the dark.

This place wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for isolation.

Tentatively, he tried to get up - only for his legs to collapse out from under him. Latching on to the opposite wall, he barely avoided smacking his head on the unforgiving concrete floor.

Gritting his teeth, he used the wall as support to keep upright, silently pleading for his body to work with him.

Peering out the small window, disappointment swelled at the sight of a nondescript white wall. Nothing to hint at who had put him in this cell. It could be the police… or someone else. Someone scarier. Someone he didn’t know the motives of.

Either option had a weight settling around his throat, every breath labored and strained.

Sitting down, he buried his head in his hands, cursing under his breath. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

Whoever had gotten him at least knew something about him; he knew from bitter experience it took a ridiculous concentration of drugs to put a dent in his metabolism. He didn’t even know he could be knocked out that quickly! He had to get out of here.

But he couldn’t, not yet, his body still hauntingly weak.

Maybe waiting was the best answer, anyway. Maybe someone would come and tell him what was going on. Maybe.

Or maybe he would get an answer to why his spider-sense was constantly, if quietly, ringing.

Tugging his legs up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and leaned against them. Reluctantly, he settled in to wait in the agonizing silence.

Miles was startled out of his doze hours later, the flap at the bottom of the door opening with a quiet click. Confused, he watched without comprehending as a bowl of rice slid under.

As suddenly as it happened, it snapped shut and locked.

Jumping to his feet, Miles pounded on the door. “Hey! Who’s out there? Why am I here? Hey!”

Faintly, he heard footsteps recede into the distance, his shouts soundly ignored.

Frowning, he struggled to process what had happened. If he had been arrested, they would have given him the chance to ask for a lawyer by now, right?

Hands curled into fists against the door, he struggled to bring his breathing back under control. He was being dismissed like a child in time out.

A taunting smell wafted up and reminded his stomach of its existence. The rice stared up at him from the floor. He was hungry enough for it to look appetizing despite its plainness.

Picking it up, he settled back onto the bed to eat it. He pulled his gloves off, silently grumbling about the lack of utensils, putting them aside and using his hands to scoop up the food. Mechanically, he chewed and swallowed until it was all gone, his nose wrinkling at the texture. Chalky streaks were scattered throughout.

Against his will, he started to list, exhaustion settling in.

What was the harm in having a nap? He wanted to be at full strength if he was escaping, right?

Curling up again, he closed his eyes and was out like a light.

Miles awoke sore and parched, stretched out on the thin mattress.

He sat up - or tried to, his arms giving out from under him, refusing to work. He yelped, pain lancing up from his elbows.

Lifting them, his eyes darted over his bare skin to the stark white bandages wrapped from his wrists to his elbows on both arms. Blood stained it in splotchy patches, and when he tentatively poked it, nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He could push in way further than he should have been able to - like pieces of him had been cut out.

To make things worse, his suit was gone, replaced with itchy white pajamas. They barely provided any warmth, goosebumps crawling over his skin from the lack of protection from the elements.

What are they doing to me? Miles thought, clenching his eyes shut, pleading for it all to be a nightmare. I have to get out of here.

But his limbs were shaking and refused to work. Deep down, he knew that he couldn’t do it right now. He wouldn't be able to fight any reinforcements that tried to stop him - whatever variety they were, cops or goons.

Blinking away tears, Miles turned towards the wall and curled up tight. He had to wait this out. At least until his body worked again.

It happened again the next day. Food was shoved under the flap, staring at him temptingly. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t had anything to eat since the day before. Reluctantly, he gave in.

Yet again, he found himself waking up worse than before. This time his wrists had been cut into and then put back together again with itchier stitches. Small spots of blood stained the bandages. He couldn’t let this happen again. No matter how weak he was, this was probably the strongest he would be for a while. So long as this trend continued.

Forcing himself to his feet, he examined the door. It was made out of thick metal, probably some sort of steel, but despite that, it was a swinging door attached to the wall with two hinges. Hinges - a weak point.

In other words, it might have been heavy, but it wasn’t indestructible by any stretch of the imagination. If he could break its weak points, it would collapse.

He stepped back, feeling watched. Looking behind himself, he spotted a small red blinking light ever so small in the darkness. Miles frowned, slowly walking towards it. If he was being watched, he would have to be smarter about this.

He leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the room to the door, arms folded. He could wait them out, let them relax and then he would act.

So he waited and waited. Waited some more. Time passed unusually when you had no way to tell what time of day it was - the hallway lights outside never turned off. Miles counted in his head instead to give himself something to do.

When several minutes had passed, Miles shifted to his feet. In a burst of speed, he shouldered the door, putting all of his momentum into it. When he stood back, eyeing his work, he couldn’t help but grin at the heavy dent. The hinges were creaking, giving way under their own weight.

With one last kick the door smashed against the opposite wall. Sirens started blaring all around, the lights cutting out to red, swirling alarms.

Miles hurried out, brushing crumbs of plaster off of himself. He glanced down both ends of the hallway, both leading into further darkness. Coin toss, in other words.

The decision was made for him when, to his left, heavily armored men came around, guns drawn. Quick response, I’ll give them that, he mused to himself.

Miles sprinted down the hallway away from them, narrowly avoiding bullets whizzing past him.

One came close enough for him to see, and Miles realized two things very quickly. First, they were shooting tranquilizer darts. Second, he realized with a sickening stomach lurch, they wanted him alive.

He skidded around a corner, almost hitting the floor with his speed. Feet thudding along, he found himself at the end of a hallway with only a door in front of him. Grabbing the hinge, he snapped the door open and ran in.

It was a mistake.

Instead of an exit, Miles found himself staring at an operating theater. In the center was a surgical table, surrounded by various carts and lights. He could see unwashed scalpels in the sink in the corner, still covered in blood from the last person they had experimented on.

He thought about destroying the room, but before the thought could materialize any further, the room filled with a haze of smoke. Desperately, Miles whirled around to escape, but he hit the floor, legs getting tangled over one another as they refused to listen to him.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway- the heavily armored guards from before stormed the room, gas masks covering their mouths.

Before he lost consciousness, he realized what the smoke reminded him of - bug spray.

When Miles came to, he found himself on an identical metal slab, in an identical-looking room with the sad toilet still sitting in the corner. The only thing that was different was the door, heavily reinforced, with no hinges visible.

Miles sat up, bitter tears threatening to spill over. He had gone down like a dumbass. He could have fought those guards, probably. He should have-- they were probably there to block the exit. Instead he sprinted straight into a trap like an idiot.

When Miles tried to stand up, his legs caved under him. Looking down at his calves, he found them wrapped in heavy bandages - red spots still leaking through.

He gently probed at it, finding a good chunk of him torn out like it was nothing. They had… had mutilated him. To stop him from trying again.

He would heal, but who knew when he would get another chance to escape? Or even if he could escape - they had brought him down so quickly…

Food was slid under the door hours later. The combination of nauseating pain from his legs, and knowing that the food would be laced with drugs kept him from eating it.

When they tried again, probably hours later, he decided that no matter what, he wouldn’t eat anything else they had to offer him. The agony of losing time, not knowing what they would do to him next, was worse than the cramping pain of his empty stomach or the still throbbing pain in his legs. At least he hoped so.

The food began to pile up, as he lost himself in sleep. When he did look at the food, the fact that many were in various stages of decay helped keep his resolve.

He became feverish as the wrappings around his legs began to yellow. Infected. Lack of food and adequate care was a likely culprit. He refused to investigate his wound further. As the hours dragged on, he began to shiver violently from a creeping cold that nothing could shake.

This was the only time he got to meet his captors, besides the guards. Barely able to focus on them, too weak to do anything but moan in pain, they poked and prodded him with instruments. One of them wrapped him in a heavy blanket, obscuring the white lab coat they wore. Another one forced him to sit up, leaning him against the wall before bringing a cup of something warm to his lips. The liquid burnt his throat, but they refused to stop despite his weak protests until the last of it was gone.

They weren’t there the next time he woke up. All that remained was the blanket, the only sign he hadn’t hallucinated the whole event.

He didn’t know how long it was before the fever broke, but when it did, he slept peacefully for the first time since he had come to this hellhole.

Then the routine continued. Food would be shoved under the door but Miles would refuse it. Instead, he spent his days fiddling with the door, but every time he tried more than a gentle prod he was sent to his knees as crippling waves of his spider-sense flooded his senses.

It didn’t take him long to realize that they were doing it on demand. Somehow they had hijacked the one sense he had always been able to rely on, and now even that was taken away from him.

As much as he didn’t want to give in, his hope began to wane - if he hadn’t already lost it. He was stuck who knows where, in a place constantly monitoring him and wanting to cut him open, and his last escape attempt had ended horribly. It all made him feel… numb.

As his muscles began to lose their size, he became more and more grateful for the infection. The blanket kept him warm so he could sleep through most of the pain in his stomach, even as his body found it harder and harder to keep him warm.

It was obvious the kidnappers were at a loss for what to do. They tried switching up the rice to various other dishes. Curry. Pasta. Burrito. Soup. A vain attempt to lure him into giving in with delicious-smelling food. In an effort to stay true to his resolve, he started flushing the food down the toilet, eyeing the camera every time in defiance, using the last of his strength to do so. A message without words. He wasn’t going to fall for their games: he would rather die.

Things were almost always quiet outside the door. All he ever heard was the sound of shoes clicking against the floor, slowly fading as they moved away. Sometimes a shadow would block his light - even though he knew they could have monitored him through the camera. That was, until one day several voices filtered through the cracks in the door.

Miles didn’t move from his curled-up position, even as the door flew open and a swarm of guards stormed in. They grabbed him and forced him upright despite his legs collapsing out from under him. It proved to not be an issue, as they had no problem resorting to dragging his useless body down the corridor.

The hallway was different, but not by much. It still looked like a creepy abandoned hospital in a horror game. Voices bounced off the endless walls, jumping between too quiet and too loud. There and gone again. It was like being dunked under waves only to rise back up to be assaulted again.

Miles hadn’t had a chance to realize when he was trying to escape, for obvious reasons - the loud siren and low lighting had all served to disorientate him - but it was painfully clear that he wasn’t the only one stuck here. He was just one of the poor souls stuck in this building, all connected through their suffering. Were they going through the same things I was? Or worse?

As he approached a familiar hallway, he realized with frightening clarity where he was going. He dug his feet into the floor, sticking with all his might, trying as hard as he could to delay the inevitable. Though he was stronger, even being as malnourished as he was, they outnumbered him. They ripped him out of the floor, holding him above the ground so he couldn’t try it again. He was forced to lie on the surgical table.

Even then, they struggled to pin his arms and legs down. He could still topple a man, or kick them into a wall. With vicious satisfaction, he knew one of the guards was down and out after being kicked into one of the monitors. He knew it was terrible, but somehow, he hoped the guard was dead. 

One by one, as hard as he fought, they eventually tied him down. Blinding lights hovered over him, drowning out any other sight.

Even as they forced a tube down his throat, all his mind could do was remember the British suffragettes. Who knew he would get to live through sixth-grade history so vividly? Tears streamed down his face, in pain and humiliated - yet so, so angry.

He struggled so hard against the binds that he heard a snap. Agonizing pain ran up and down his left arm before there was a prick of pain and he slumped into unconsciousness.

They would pay for this.

In the end, he began to eat just a bite from every plate. Barely enough to keep himself alive, but not enough that the medicine could do anything more than make him drowsy. He would never experience that again - he wouldn’t allow it.

With his blanket as his only company, sleep became his new friend. It was the only time he could leave this room, even if it was just a dream.

What were his powers good for when all they did was make him suffer?

What felt like days later - maybe a week? Two? He never knew anymore - his kidnappers finally got sick of him ‘eating around’ the fun little drugs they put in his food - if them bursting through the door, grabbing him, and dragging him down the corridors once again was any indication.

Head lolling to the side, he saw eyes watching him through the small window of another cell. He tried to smile - but it came out like a grimace. He knew that the next time he heard a scream, he would wonder. The next time he heard someone sobbing, he would think of them. And he didn’t want to: it was hard enough to sit in a cell for hours not knowing his own fate. It would hurt too much to think of others. Their shadow disappeared from sight.

To his dismay and relief, when they forced him down on the surgical table they put an oxygen mask over his mouth and the familiar smell of bug spray hit him.

When he woke up, blanket haphazardly thrown on top of him, he found another line of stitches along his left arm. Miles turned over on the metal bed, pulling the blanket up around his neck. He didn’t want to figure out what they had done to him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

There was nothing he could do but wait to waste away, but even then, it was useless. They would just drag him down the corridor again and again until there was nothing left of him. His only protest had amounted to nothing.

There was a distant sound echoing down the hallway. It crept under the door, making Miles sit up straighter from his spot next to the door. They hadn’t bothered to put him back on the metal bed this time and he didn’t care enough to stand up, so the wall was his bed today.

Then, another sound - like a gunshot. Closer.

Around ten people's boots slammed into the ground, their hurried footsteps receding down the corridor towards the sound.

Before he could get up to investigate, the window was slammed shut. For the first time since he had gotten there, he was left in complete and utter darkness.

Confused and a bit annoyed, he leaned his body against the corner of the door, trying to make out any sounds. All he could hear were muffled shouts. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and listened closer.

Wait. Fighting?

Glancing at the camera, he couldn’t help but smile. If they were too busy trying to stop an escapee or defending this little hellhole against someone, surely they wouldn’t notice him trying to escape. It was the first time since getting here that he had felt a spark of hope.

Shifting forward to look at the flap they pushed food through, he peered through the cracks to figure out how it was reinforced. As far as he could tell there was a small bolt - like one you would use on a shed.

Had they not realized how strong he was? How flexible? Even at his weakest, he knew he was stronger than the average man. Just because he couldn’t break down the door didn’t mean he couldn’t get out through this. Especially with all the weight he had lost, slimming him down. It didn’t matter - their mistake was his advantage.

It might take a few minutes to successfully get out this way, the only reason he hadn’t tried it sooner, but this was his opportunity.

Miles squeezed his hands under the flap, grabbing onto them with his adhesiveness. With some quick jerks, he was able to snap it off of its lock and push it open. He waited for his spider-sense to go haywire, but it didn’t. He was right - they had forgotten about him in the mayhem.

Squeezing through the hole, feeling sort of like a snake, he found the hallways unnervingly empty. The sounds of fighting were amplified, bouncing off the walls. With adrenaline racing through him, he rose to his feet shaking like a newborn lamb.

He had to get out of here before he was noticed: he was even weaker than his first attempt. There was no way he could fight off more than one guard at a time.

He hobbled down the corridor, eyes darting around looking for an exit. Before he had made it more than a few feet, he remembered with a jolt the eyes he’d seen. He wasn’t the only one here. Selfishly, he wanted to leave them behind. If it were just him, he would have a better chance. Less chance of being spotted, less chance whoever was behind that door would hold him back.

Miles looked back down the corridor, trying to spot any guards lurking. No one was there. He had time, right? It was the right thing to do.

Miles crouched down next to the flap, opening it. “Uh, is anyone in here?” With his cracked lips and sore throat, even those few words had him grimacing.

“Who are you?” a female voice asked, suspicious. A wave of relief passed over him. He had been right, there were others here.

“My name is Miles, I was next door. We can get each other out. Can you squeeze under the flap?” he pleaded, offering his hand into the darkness.

“Why would you help me?” she demanded.

He glanced anxiously down the corridor. They were getting closer. “We don’t have time for this. Double the strength, the better the chance of escape.”

“I can’t fight!” she exclaimed. “They’ll kill us for trying. Go away!”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Willing his nerves to steel themselves and his frustration to soothe into empathy. “Wouldn’t it be better to die fighting rather than be their experiments?”

There was silence, filled with the sounds of gunshots down the hall. “I… I can’t crawl under. It’s too small for me.”

Crap. Miles looked over the door, examining it. This one had hinges, unlike his. He could rip it out of the walls, probably. It would be hard, and it would probably drain all his reserves, but he could do it. “I can break the door open.”

She huffed disbelievingly. Taking that as the closest thing to confirmation he would get, he grabbed the door by its hinges. The door creaked, straining in place. He fought against his instincts to stop as pain ran up and down his arms. All of a sudden, there was a loud crack, and the door smashed onto the ground. Miles fell over from the momentum, but that barely grabbed his attention as he saw his fellow inmate.

The girl had wings! Twice her size, she had them wrapped around herself like a shield. They were stained brown, just like her face; she was as grimy as him. When he looked at her closer, he realized she was really young. Maybe eight, at his best guess.

He slowly picked himself off the floor, hip aching from the fall. There was going to be an ugly bruise there tomorrow - if he made it that far. Forcing himself to smile through the pain, he said, “I’m Miles. What’s your name?”

She slowly unfurled, revealing in the light that the stains on her wings weren’t just from dirt. Dried blood littered them. They seemed too thin, with patches of feathers missing. As she moved, they drooped like they couldn’t even hold themselves. A ball of anger threatened to choke him. She was just a kid.

“Amy,” she said softly, moving out of the cell. She nervously looked down the hallway, hearing the sounds of fighting coming closer.

“Let’s get going, and if we come across any other cells with people let’s get them out too,” he whispered, hustling her to move in front of him. With her dragging wings and his legs threatening to give out with every step, it was going to be near-impossible to get out of here quickly.

There was nothing else they could do but keep on moving. They would stand no chance in a fight now.

Checking at each flap, it was another ten doors before there were any signs of life. The fighting was getting closer, despite their best efforts to move away from it, and he had to get Amy out. But maybe this person could help them.

“Hey, are you able to squeeze out of the flap?” He asked, bending down.

“What’s going on? Why am I here?” the person demanded, the voice moving closer as if they were walking towards them. Miles blinked, surprised.

He glanced down the corridor. Getting closer. “Look, they want to experiment on you. Grab my hand so we can get you out.”

There was a bit of shuffling around and then they grabbed his hand. He helped pull them out, dragging them across the tiles until they were out. Amy helped him get her to her feet.

The new girl frowned when she finally got a good look at Miles. “You look… horrible.”

Despite himself, he could feel heat rising to his cheeks. “I know. We need to get out of here. What’s your name and power?”

“Jasmine, and-”

A loud bang made them all jump. Down the hallway there was a guard slumped against the wall. Miles pulled Amy and Jasmine close to the wall, crouching down low in a pitiful attempt to hide.

Several guards rushed around the corner, taking up positions facing away from them. Their guns held high and pointed at whoever or whatever was just around the corner.

He leaned in close to the other two. “The fight’s reached us. They’re distracted, should we run?” he whispered.

“They’ll shoot us,” Amy mumbled, her wings folding up around her.

“They’ll kill us if we stay here,” he said, more to himself than to them. “I can’t fight, and I can’t protect you guys.”

Jasmine’s shoulders squared with a look of fierce determination on her face. “I can stop them.”

“How?” he demanded.

“Have you heard of telekinesis?” she asked. To demonstrate, she lifted her hand up at the handle on her door. The handle slowly turned, though it didn’t open - probably locked like every other door here.

Miles lit up. “How confident are you with it?” he whispered excitedly.

“It’s okay, could be better,” she admitted, a small smile on her face.

“That’s fine.” He peered back around the corner, studying the guards, who either hadn’t noticed or were ignoring them. “I want you to lift the guns out of their hands and get one to me. We’ll go from there.” Jasmine nodded and moved closer to him. He began a countdown, getting ready himself. Before he reached one the room lit up with muzzle flashes.

Jasmine took that as her cue. One by one, Miles watched in amazement as the guns got tugged out of the guards’ hands and whizzed past them. One landed close enough to him that he grabbed it. There were shouts of astonishment, but before they could realize who had taken their guns, a red-suited man came rushing around the corner.

Miles lifted the gun, bracing himself to defend themselves, but paused – waiting to see how the scene unfolded. Despite the situation, he didn’t want to have to use it. The red-suited man was like a blur, moving so fast it was hard to keep track. The distinct sound of bones breaking coupled with their pained screams had Miles’s heart racing.

Amy tried to get a better look, but he gently forced her back and behind him.

With one last, vicious thwack the final man collapsed to the ground. Blood trickled down his face. For a moment, Miles wondered if they were still alive before noticing that their chests were slowly rising and falling. The urge to see their breath stop completely was… unfamiliar.

The man straightened back up, breathing heavily. He rolled his shoulders, tipping his head side to side like an athlete after a good workout.

“Should we move-” Jasmine started, before he shushed her. It didn’t seem to matter - the man’s head swiveled in their direction. Miles slowly stood up, using the wall to hide his weakness, gripping the gun tighter.

“Who are you?” the man shouted, voice gravelly.

“Are you going to hurt us?” Miles demanded.

The man slowly approached them, and he gradually increased the pressure on the trigger. But as he got closer he could make out what he had missed in the chaos. The red-suited man had horns poking out of his helmet.

“Daredevil?” Miles said in disbelief, lowering the gun. He had only heard about him through the criminal rumor mill, but he had seemed more like a myth. He had wondered if someone had seen Peter, before his death, and mistaken him for something more sinister. But here was the proof, standing right in front of them.

He paused, his lips twitching. “Most of the guards are down and the police are on their way. You’ll be taken care of, Spider-Man.”

Miles swallowed, unnerved. Guess everyone knew his identity then. Ignoring the surprised exclamations from Jasmine and Amy, he slowly said, “Thank you. For this.”

“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Daredevil Guy,” Jasmine chimed in from behind him.

“Be careful on your way out. Follow the corridor down to its end, turn left and then walk up the stairs,” Daredevil said, then continued on his way like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t saved Miles, and who knew how many other people, from a miserable existence.

Miles owed him one.

Pouring rain greeted them as they left the building. Outside waiting for them was a crowd of police cars, ambulances and news vans. Miles squinted against the blinding blue and red light, dropping the gun to the ground in favor of shielding his eyes while they adjusted. Even though the cells had had a constant stream of light, the cells had still been mostly dark. He was grateful that it wasn’t daylight.

The police were standing in clumps around the perimeter, talking and gesturing. At his best guess, they were getting ready to raid the building. Especially considering how decked out they were. With helmets, face shields, heavily padded clothing and big guns they looked ready to go to war.

With relief flooding his system, his legs finally gave out from under him, and he dropped to his knees to avoid hitting the ground completely. Amy wasn’t much better, her wings drooping and dragging in the mud. Jasmine, who had failed to stop him from falling, held on to his shoulder to steady him. Paramedics rushed to them, shock blankets being wrapped around each of them.

Jasmine let go of him and he missed that small comfort immediately.

The paramedic attending to him got down to his level, the flashlight being pointed at each of his eyes making him flinch away. “Can you stand?”

He tried to get a leg out to stand up but ended up collapsing into the paramedic instead who quickly grabbed him. Humiliatingly, the paramedic just picked him up into a bridal position like he weighed nothing. Probably because he did.

In the confusion of the moment he had lost track of Amy and Jasmine, the only remaining sign that they had been there with him was a small white feather. He allowed himself to stop worrying about them and his head lolled into the warm chest of the paramedic.

The paramedic stepped into an ambulance, laying him down on the stretcher and adjusting the blanket around him before stepping back and adding another one. From where he had produced it, Miles didn’t know. The bed was adjusted so the back was lifted, giving him a surface to lean on while allowing him to look around. 

The paramedic finally sat down in the chair next to the stretcher. “Hey there, my name’s Josh and the other paramedic for this van is Amanda,” the paramedic said, gesturing between him and the front of the ambulance. “We’re going to give you a check-up before we head to the hospital. Can I ask you some questions?” 

Miles nodded, although even that slight motion made him dizzy.

Josh reached behind him producing a blood pressure cuff. “What's your name?” he asked as he wrapped it around his arm. Josh pulled his arm further out from Miles’s body and he felt at his elbow.

He hesitated. “Miles,” he finally whispered.

“Nice to meet you, Miles,” Josh said, after a brief pause and writing down something on a clipboard he removed the cuff. “Do you know where you are?”

“New York… I think,” he said quietly. He looked past him to the door, finding it slightly ajar. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of it.

He saw Josh nod from the corner of his eye. “Yep, we’re in Brooklyn. Do you have any allergies or conditions we should be aware of?”

“No.” Josh once again gently grabbed his arm and attached something to his middle finger. He heard the machine beside him come to life and lines started to flash across the screen. He glanced at it- it was his heart rate- then back to the door.

“Were you given any medication?”

“Not recently. Just some stuff that knocked me out,” he answered, watching intently as the door swayed in the wind.

“What else did the medicine do? How long since the last time you had some?” he asked, the sound of pen on paper following.

“Couldn’t move my muscles. Fell asleep. Probably a few days,” Miles said. It was hard to keep track of the days when the lights outside your door were on twenty-four-seven.

“Alright. Have you had any operations of any kind recently?”

“Probably. They would stitch me up afterwards. Arms, my chest and legs. Don’t know what they were doing,” he answered robotically, fiddling absently with the clamp on his finger.

“Alright, well-” The light shifted at the entrance of the door, a shadow falling into the space. Miles tensed, hearing something crack by his hands just as there was a knock at the door. Distracted, Josh stopped mid-sentence and got up. “Sorry, one second, Miles.”

He opened the door and leaned out to talk to the shadow. Miles tried to peer past him to see what it was but his view was blocked. 

“Can I ask a few questions before you send the patient off?” the person asked. There was something familiar about that voice, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“No, we need to get him to the hospital right away,” Josh said firmly.

“I’m fine to answer some questions,” he said, loud enough for Josh to look back at him, revealing the outfit of a police officer. They didn’t have riot gear like the ones outside had. Dad had always talked about how important it was as a police officer to get questions answered while the incident was still fresh in the victim's mind.

He was given an assessing look by Josh before he nodded and moved back to his seat, allowing the police officer entry.

Miles froze.

It wasn’t just any police officer: it was Dad. Dad was here to ask him some questions. When he really took him in, he realized just how tired he looked. He had thick, heavy bags under his eyes like he had spent too many nights awake. His shoulders were drooped, no longer held back with ease and confidence like they always had. Dad sighed, bringing out his notebook and stepping into the ambulance.

And that’s when he saw him, too.

“Miles,” he whispered as if he didn’t believe his eyes. Miles felt a twinge in his chest as his Dad’s voice cracked, emotions strangling the singular word. He stepped into the ambulance and before he knew it he had him in a huge hug. He grabbed him just as tight, tears rolling down his face, blurring his vision.

He heard Dad sniffle before pulling back, hands staying on his shoulders. Keeping contact, as if Miles would disappear the moment he let go.

Then it registered, like a lightning strike, that he was crying. It was like witnessing something he shouldn’t; Dad wasn’t supposed to cry. He had never seen him cry, ever. He had come close, but never like this.

His hands shook as he cupped Miles’s face, leaning close enough for their foreheads to touch.

“You’re alive,” Dad said, voice quivering and on the verge of breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. All his fear, all his doubts, everything that had happened finally flooded out. “I’m so sorry.”

He wiped away Miles’s tears with his thumbs, giving him a watery smile. “You’re alive, you’re here, that’s all that matters.” Dad leaned back, getting a better look at him. Miles couldn’t look him in the eyes. He lightly touched Miles’s shirt, taking in its appearance. How he was drenched in sweat, grime, rain and the occasional stain of blood.

He visibly swallowed, seemingly steeling himself before solemnly promising, “You’ll be okay.”

He pulled Miles into a tight hug, before pulling back and standing up. “I’m going to let the chief know where I’m headed, I’ll only be a moment,” Dad announced, to both him and the paramedics who were patiently waiting for the moment to end. He squeezed his hand reassuringly.

When he was halfway out of the ambulance, he hesitated for a long moment, looking back at him like he would disappear at any moment. Miles gave him a reassuring smile, though it couldn’t reach his eyes. Then he squared his shoulders and moved out of sight.

Josh made a small noise and when Miles looked over, Josh was pulling the clamp from his finger. The metal was caved in in the shape of a finger, the screen where the readings came out was dark.

When Josh saw the look on his face he hastened to say, “It’s fine, it’s not a big deal!”

Dad finally hopped back in before Josh could say anything more. He settled into a seat at the end of Miles’s stretcher, reaching over and putting a hand on his ankle, lightly squeezing it. Miles took a deep, shuddering breath as the ambulance rumbled to life. Whatever happened next, he was free. That was all that mattered.

It was a flurry of activity when we got to the hospital. Lots of check-ups, cleaning him up and otherwise making sure Miles wasn’t actively dying before getting a room of his own with a staticy tv playing some drama show in the background.

He had fractured his left wrist at some point, so he had a black cast on. The adrenaline of everything must have masked the pain.

Miles absently fiddled with the soft sheets; it felt strange to be on a comfy mattress with a pillow. It felt like a luxury after the facility. It was something he knew he would rapidly take for granted once again, but in the meantime, it was a change he was grateful for.

Dad had had to go back to work: the police force had been stretched thin by the chaos of the facility being discovered. Lots of evidence to be collected and not enough time to do it. He had left Miles with the promise that he would make sure Mamá would get him some of his own clothes and his devices, so the few days under observation wouldn’t be as hellish.

There was a creak as the door opened. Expecting a nurse, Miles was instead greeted with the sight of Mamá walking in with a bag. Not the nurse he was expecting, but the one he had wanted most of all.

She dropped the heavy bag on a chair beside him before sitting down on his bed, giving him a huge, tender hug, careful not to jostle him too much. He hugged her back tightly, her rose perfume so familiar his eyes stung.

When she finally sat back, a wobbly smile greeted him.

“Hi Mamá,” he said quietly.

“Never, ever do that to me again,” she whispered, her hand in Miles’s. He gently squeezed it, and she squeezed back.

“I just-” She took a shuddering breath. “Why you? You’re such a good kid.”

It took a moment for her statement to process, but when it did, he studied her closer. She hadn’t even mentioned anything about his alter-ego. If she knew… she wouldn’t be questioning why he had been kidnapped.

He pursed his lips. He could tell her right now and there would be no secrets. Nothing to hide, no need to worry about hiding his injuries, none of that.

But maybe he would be forced to hang up the suit. He couldn’t, not when he didn’t know what information his kidnappers had on him. He had to stop what happened to him from happening again, and he couldn’t do that as normal Miles. He needed to do it, even if they wouldn’t understand.

“...I don’t know, bad luck I guess,” he mumbled, unable to meet her eyes.

She squeezed his hand again and he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. “We’ll be okay, promise,” she declared.

Miles gave her a small smile, the only thing he could do to reassure her. “Okay,” he said, his stomach twisting with guilt over the lie.

Chapter Text

“As more details pour in about the harrowing situation in Brooklyn, we turn to Sam on the scene. Sam, what can you tell us?”

“...Yes, hi Jen. As we’ve been standing here for the last hour, there's been a steady trickle of minors coming out of this horrific scene. Noticeably, one of them had wings, another horns and there was even one with scaly skin. The theory at the moment seems to be that whatever they were brought here for, it was to do with these extra features.

“Notably, an insider revealed to us that all the files they’ve found so far on these minors have revealed that they had latent genetic mutations giving them these additions, except for one.

“As we get more details, we’ll be sure to let everyone know. Back to you, Jen.”

Turns out starving yourself to near death was a bigger deal to fix than he had known. Miles found himself attached to various bags of slowly dripping liquids replenishing his minerals and vitamins, while a team of dieticians worked on a plan to ‘introduce food back into his system’.

Through the closed door, he had overheard someone talking about how he was in worse condition than most of the kids they had rescued, despite his stay being shorter than most. He tried not to overhear any more of that conversation.

He suspected his advanced metabolism played a large role in his poor state. He had been way hungrier since getting bit by that spider than before it. Starving himself on top of that had probably worked quickly to eat through his muscle and fat reserves.

He forced himself to relax into the pillows provided. The Spider-Man side of him wanted to heal up as quickly as possible and find out who did this, and the Miles side of him wanted to smother that urge and just be normal for a change. That was never going to happen, though, and whoever kidnapped him had so much information on him now. He had to keep it out of the bad guys’ hands.

There was a light knock on the door and he idly turned his head to look. One of the nurses, Rebecca, opened the door to reveal his friend. Ganke.

“Miles!” Ganke exclaimed, throwing his hands out wide.

“Ganke,” he replied, attempting to give him a big smile.

Ganke hurried to his bedside, throwing his Star Wars backpack to the ground and quickly sitting down on his bed - though he made sure Miles’s legs weren’t in the way first.

“Oh my god, Miles. I didn’t even know what to think when you disappeared for like, two months. I knew you weren’t dead, you’re you-know-who, but, um, I couldn’t wait to hear about the crazy stories that would come out of it. What happened? The news hasn’t said anything useful, and your parents weren’t saying anything either!” Ganke blurted.

Miles couldn’t help but pick at a loose thread on his bedsheets. “It, uh, wasn’t all that exciting. No… no great stories to tell.”

Ganke looked puzzled. “No daring escapes? No ‘sticking it to the man?’” 

“Um, not really.” His thoughts flashed to holding the stolen gun in his hands, desperation making pulling a trigger easier than he would have thought. If Daredevil hadn’t been there…

He wiped his eyes with his good hand, willing the thoughts away. The thoughts stuck anyway. “It’s, uh, well, maybe don’t think of it as a ‘spidey’ adventure?”

Lying on the cold metal, staring at the food with the shame of knowing it had all been useless. His body wasn’t his anymore, just an experiment to keep alive until they were satisfied-

His chest felt tighter, like he couldn’t breathe properly. “I-”

Ganke grabbed his non-casted hand, squeezing it gently. “Hey, breathe. Follow mine. In…” he exaggerated a big, slow breath which Miles struggled to replicate. “And out… Try again, in…. And out…. Here.”

Ganke dug into one of his pockets, pulling out a handkerchief and putting it in his hands. Miles absently wiped at his cheeks, suddenly feeling so much more exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Ganke said quietly, “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything.” He looked lost, wringing his fingers together. “Um, okay, let me tell you instead about how I’ve been doing.”

Miles nodded, still loosely holding onto the handkerchief.

“So, school has been weird. They, um, pulled me into counseling when you disappeared. It was nice? But, they’re not that great at, like, actually helping? But they did give me extra time on assignments and stuff which was cool. In history we’ve been learning about World War Two, and in English we’ve been doing The Handmaid’s Tale. It’s, like, really messed up. I bet - if you ask - you could totally get them to give you another book to study-” Ganke rattled on, eyes occasionally straying to all the monitors and equipment around him before darting away.

It was clear enough that they were both wildly uncomfortable and unsure. No one had bothered to give him a mirror, not that he would want one, but he knew how gaunt he would look. How pale and sharp his face would be, with sunken in eyes and marks around his mouth and nose from the struggle to fend off the feeding tube. He wouldn’t want to look at him either.

Ganke was trying, he was trying so hard. Miles couldn’t wait for when things were more normal again.

Eventually, they were interrupted by one of the nurses, telling Ganke it was time to go. After Ganke signed his cast (something he insisted he had to do before going) and promised to share his Disney+ password, he was gone.

As the door closed, the lights dimming, a cold, hollow emptiness enveloped him.

A week later he was discharged from the hospital with strict instructions to keep to light food in small amounts. Just walking to the car proved to be a long process, as his muscles refused to work properly despite the work with the physio. Without danger to drive him, walking with shrunken muscles was painful.

Despite being offered a wheelchair, he couldn’t bring himself to sit in it.

He spent a lot of the walk leaning on his Dad. Thankfully, Dad didn’t mention it.

Dad opened the car door for him, revealing the softest blanket and plushiest pillow already waiting for him on the car seat. His chest squeezed, and tears threatened to spill before he blinked them away. He got in.

Before he could reach around himself to grab the seatbelt, Dad had already leaned across him and strapped him in. He was six the last time Dad had done that. Dad squeezed his knee before closing the passenger door and getting into his own seat.

Driving home, Dad put on some soft music to distract them both. A few minutes in, Dad spoke up. “Just so you know, I’ve been taken off the case. They think I’m too close to it to stay level-headed,” he said, resolutely looking forward.

“Oh, okay.” Miles looked at him, studying his forcibly relaxed shoulders. “Did you, um… want to stay on it?”

“...It was going to be a chance to advance my career. Move to more office work than fieldwork. And I want to know what happened to you - so I can help you better. But your privacy is important and you can tell us in your own time.” Dad took one of his hands off the wheel to put it on his knee. He glanced over at Miles. “You’ve already been through so much.”

Suddenly meeting his eyes was a lot harder. More skeletons seemed to accumulate in his closet by the day, all hidden away with his Spider-Man suit. Mamá and Dad would never know the extent of what he had been through, and he planned to keep it that way.

“I guess so,” he mumbled, watching familiar streets go by.

There was a pause and then Dad had both his hands back on the steering wheel. 

It didn’t take long for them to roll up to the house. Before he could move to get out Dad had already hurried around to his side and opened the door for him. He accepted his offered hand of help without complaint.

One thing he was grateful for was that no one was around. It was a weekday and everyone was at school or work. No old classmates to pity him as he struggled up every step.

With a click of the lock, they were inside. The smell of home hit him first, and he felt his shoulders relax for the first time in months. Dad went ahead into the kitchen after putting his shoes neatly on the shoe rack.

Miles followed along, fingers trailing the wallpaper. “I’m going to message Ganke,” he spoke up, forcing his hand to come down to his side. He could feel his watchful gaze following him as he shuffled towards his room.

“Alright, well, you tell him I say hi,” Dad replied, turning the kettle on and preparing some coffee. “I’ll get some soup ready for you.”

He wandered into his room, softly clicking the lock. He moved further in, sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed. His desk was neater than the last time he had been here, everything lined up straight and no stray papers to be seen. His floor was spotless, and nothing was out of line.

Mum had probably swept through here multiple times while stress cleaning. Worrying if he was okay. Trying to find evidence of why he was gone. It was only luck that his spare Spider-Man suit was back at the dorm and not in his room.

It… didn’t smell like his room anymore. It wasn’t… his. It was too soft, too bright, too open. The window couldn’t quite lock right after a careless accident trying to get to someone shouting in distress a week into being Spider-Man. He could see fresh paint on the edge of the metal lock from an unsteady hand. It was fixed.

He slowly sunk to the carpeted floor, wrapping his arms around himself. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

He had to… message Ganke. Right. Then find out how many messages had been sent… see how many times people tried to call him. The panic when they realized he was gone. He had to-

Miles wiped away a stray tear, his chest growing tighter. He couldn’t. Why couldn’t he? He could get up.

But it was too hard. Everything was too hard. He was weak. Would stay weak for weeks. He couldn’t protect himself. He couldn’t-

He brought his knees up to his chest, buried his head in them, and let himself quietly fall apart.

Two weeks of almost complete bed rest dragged. Catch-up schoolwork was the only thing that could distract him from his own mind, in the times that he wasn’t too numb to even move.

Yet it was over before he was ready. The first day back at school was already here and he dreaded facing it.

The comforting words of his Mamá and Dad did nothing to soothe the tension in his shoulders, the nauseous feeling in his throat. Only the looming threat of losing his incredibly important scholarship kept him getting ready that morning.

Dad drove him to school and for the first time, that was a small relief.

When they were pulled over in the drop-off area, Miles couldn’t move. His fingers refused to budge from their resting position on his lap. All he could see was the swarming movement of the crowd, the crowd that would look at him. See the bruise still lingering on his cheek, the paleness of his skin, the thinness of his hair. The cast on his arm from the broken wrist that should have healed already. How he couldn’t hold a pen steady yet. The haunted look in his eyes.

“We can postpone this until next week, but I don’t think that will help you Miles,” his Dad softly said as a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder. They were worlds away from the embarrassment of being ordered to say ‘I love you’ on these very steps. His heart ached to go back.

“...They’ll stare.”

Dad’s other hand came to rest on his knee, finally drawing his eyes from the crowd back to him. “Who cares, they don’t know what you’ve been through.”

Neither do you. His eyes darted back to the crowd before studying the pitying look on his face. It was what finally got him to grab the handle and open it.

“Remember, call if you need to come home. My boss will understand.”

No, he won’t. “Okay.”

He got out of the car, delaying the inevitable by putting his hands through both straps. He needed his hands free anyway to prevent a bad fall. He wasn’t even out of his cast yet, despite similar injuries having healed in days before.

“I’ll see you at the end of the day, okay? I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay. Love you,” Miles said, eyes darting up to meet his Dad’s eyes before closing the door. He stepped back and watched the car disappear into New York’s traffic. 

When he turned back to look at the thinning crowd, he could see a few kids studying him. He swallowed and quietly thanked his decision to not use the cane he had been offered by the physiotherapist.

He regretted it when he struggled up the handful of stairs, wincing as he heard someone snicker and start whispering to their friend next to them.

The bell rang for his first class and he struggled to pick up the pace to get to his first class. 

This was going to be a long day.

“Miles, stay behind for me please.”

Miles winced, giving them a nod but otherwise refusing to look up. People’s eyes bore into him as they filtered out of the class. His nerves were frayed at the edges already and it was only lunch time.

Miss Calleros sat down at the desk in front of him and he made himself look at her. She had a softer look on her face than he was used to. The urge to flee the conversation was almost unbearable.

“I’ve had a chance to look over your catch-up work and I’m impressed you were able to do so much. I want you to understand that none of us expects you to be where your classmates are. You’ve got blanket permission from all your teachers to ask for extensions,” she said softly, giving him an encouraging smile.

“I… appreciate it. Thanks,” he managed to say, eyes flicking to the door. He spotted two shadows in the doorway, peering in at him, before they moved away.

He blinked. Instead of the warm summer sunshine blanketing the room with light, it was cold and artificial. Miss Calleros was replaced with a scientist, lab coat stained with his blood and pus.

He stopped breathing, his good hand tensed into a fist.

“Miles?” It took a moment for her voice to snap him out of the moment. The energy drained out of him and he leaned back in his chair, eyes on the cars outside.

“Can I go now?” he murmured.

Her eyes swept over him, examining him. He felt like a bug under a microscope. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning back and folding his arms. “Would you like to have your lunch here?” She gently suggested.

He hesitated. It would be better than out there. But he knew his Dad was right - time wouldn’t make facing the other kids any better. “I’m okay. I should find Ganke.”

She clearly didn’t believe him, but allowed him to get up, grab his bags and walk out the door.

Finding Ganke in his normal spot was easy enough, what he didn’t expect was for the seat across from him - his seat - to be taken up by some girl. Fighting down the waves of jealousy, he came and sat next to Ganke instead.

“Miles!” Ganke excitedly exclaimed, pulling him into a side hug. He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “Meet Jasmine.”

Jasmine extended her hand towards him to shake. “Hey Miles, good to finally know your name.”

He could only stare at her. In the light of day, without adrenaline pumping through his body keeping him tunnel visioned on surviving, he finally got a chance to get a good look at her. She was taller than him, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. A few freckles dotted her face, four on each cheek loosely in the shape of a diamond.

He accepted the hand shake, but when she went to let go he kept a hold of her. She made a noise of protest and he squeezed.

“Don’t tell anyone what Daredevil revealed about me,” he hissed, frantic eyes searing into her.

“I-I won’t,” she gasped out and he let go.

He heard Ganke nervously swallow, eyes lingering on him. He was definitely going to ask about this later. “Um, she’s… she’s from my math class.”

A silence descended on the little group before Miles forced himself to lean back and relax. “You look better than when I saw you last. How are you catching up with classes?”

Jasmine gave him a sympathetic look - it made his skin itch. “Uh, it wasn’t an issue. I only needed a, uh, ‘sick-day’ from all that. I was only gone over the weekend. Not that long.”

The exhaustion from earlier with Miss Calleros threatened to overwhelm him. He had forgotten that detail. The closest thing to someone who would understand wasn’t there. That hope was extinguished. “Right.”

She wrung her hands together, “I wanted to thank you, as well. I… wouldn’t have gotten out of there without you. If you could keep my involvement on the down-low too, I would appreciate it.”

He gave her a simple nod and for the first time he saw her relax. “Awesome. Well, I’ll leave you two to it and see you around.”

He turned towards Ganke, glad to actually have time with his friend now, only to find him staring at him like he was a stranger. He shifted uncomfortably and turned to his sandwich - it was the one excuse he had not to talk.

Second-to-last class of the day and his hand was shaking. All his senses were on fire for no reason and to add the cherry on top -

“What power do you think he has? ‘Cause Ronny heard from Jessica who said Tim told her that he had been part of that thing in Brooklyn, but I don’t believe it, ‘cause, what power would he even have?” he heard one of the kids at the back of the room whisper.

“I don’t believe it - I mean look at him. What power could he possibly have that would make him look this crappy afterwards? I think he didn’t have what they wanted and just neglected him,” a male voice muttered.

He heard their neighbor flick them and the male voice hissed in pain. “Don’t be an idiot. If you can keep a powerful prisoner weak by starving them, you’d do it. I reckon he has super strength or something.”

A female voice huffed disbelievingly, “Even before he disappeared he was basically a twig. He couldn’t lift me - let alone a car. Maybe he can, I don’t know, control fire or something?”

“But that’s so lame,” the male voice said, dragging out the last word.

“Wait, why don’t we just ask him?” another voice pitched in and he heard furious writing before something hit his back and slid onto the seat.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and ignored them.

“What? He didn’t even look at it,” the note writer whined.

“Let me,” the female voice assured. More writing and then this rolled-up note hit his cast and rolled down on top of the book he had been failing to read.

He took another deep breath, willing himself to have patience he didn’t have, and opened the scrunched bit of paper.

What superpower do you have? :D

He finally looked back at the group of four. They were staring at him expectantly. He made the note visible to them, looked one of them straight in the eye, and crumpled it before stuffing the remains in his pocket. He turned back to his book.

“What the hell! It’s just a question,” the male voice sneered.

“I bet he wasn’t even captured. It’s all just a coincidence. He’s just anorexic and letting us all believe he was bloody kidnapped,” the female voice declared.

He was out of his chair and in their face before he had even realised he had moved, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I fucking starved myself on purpose so they wouldn’t tie me down and cut me open. Was that what you wanted to know?! Are you happy?!”

“Miles!” his teacher yelled, making him snap out of his rage.

The group of kids were looking at him with terrified looks like they expected him to start beating them up any second. Chest heaving, he looked back to see the whole class staring at him. His adrenaline quickly faded to be replaced with cold shame.

He caught himself on the desk just as his legs threatened to collapse. He swallowed, determinedly looking the teacher in the eye.

“I’m going to the nurse,” he muttered, forcing his legs to move one step in front of the other until he was out the door. Only when he had turned the corner did he allow himself to buckle completely, falling to his knees hard enough to jar his whole body.

Every breath was hindered by the weight on his chest. His heart pounded so loud it overwhelmed everything else, racing like a rabbit’s. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t protect himself, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t…

The sound of a door opening was the only thing that got him moving towards the nurses office. He didn’t want anyone else to see him like this. He didn’t need any more questions. He didn’t want any more pity.

The door to Miles and Ganke’s shared room slowly creaked open, spilling light into the darkened room. Miles stiffened, but settled when he heard the familiar footsteps of his friend coming in. He rolled over, back to the door. 

“Miles?” Ganke called.

“What?” He snapped then regretted it, curling into a tighter ball. 

There was a pause before Ganke closed the door, snapping the lock into place. There was the sound of two things being put down on the ground. Ganke must have had the bag that Miles had left behind. He stepped onto the ladder, head popping up into his peripheral vision.

“Do you want to talk about it?” his friend gently suggested.

Miles took a deep breath, wiping away a stray tear. “Why is this so hard?” he asked miserably, voice wavering.

Ganke invited himself onto the top bunk, kicking his shoes off on the way up, and laid down next to him, face to face.

“No one exactly has a frame of reference, y’know? People don’t know how to help you,” Ganke explained, shifting so he was on his back staring up at the ceiling instead of looking at him.

“Everyone is treating me like I’m some- some…” he lost the words to explain it, balling his hands into fists.

Ganke glanced over at him, “Cornered animal? ‘Cause you’ve been acting like one. I really think you should talk to someone about what you went through.”

“What? Like you?” Miles hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment. “I just… don’t want to relive it. I don’t want to… be that person again.”

“What do you mean?” Ganke asked quietly.

Miles pursued his lips. “Hopeless,” he finally admitted.

He knew how draining this would be, but the borderline interrogation from Detective Smith was taking everything out of him. Especially as he avoided admitting anything about his powers and how his kidnappees knew about them.

“So you’re saying they did some sort of surgery on your wrists? Can you explain more about that?” Smith asked, thin glasses basically falling off of his nose as he looked down on Miles.

“I figured it out after this, but they drugged my food so I was knocked out when they would come to take me. I had something to eat and fell asleep pretty quickly afterwards. When I woke up next both wrists had a line of stitches on them,” Miles explained numbly, eyes staring into nothingness.

“And they did this regularly? Every dish was drugged?”

He crossed his hands even tighter. “I don’t know. I stopped eating anything they gave me after that.”

Smith hummed, scribbling something down. “You were gone two months, there is physically no way you’d be alive if you hadn’t had anything since then.”

Miles’s breath hitched, struggling not to relive the force feedings. Every time wide awake, the tube stuck halfway down his throat, cold and- “They forced it on me,” he choked out, hunching in on himself. There was a weight on his chest- in his chest, he couldn’t breathe around it-

Smith dropped his pen, the noise enough to startle him out of the phantom sensations. “We’re not getting anywhere. We’ll try again another day.”

Miles swallowed the bile in his throat. “Ok.”

Smith got up, taking his notes with him and opened the interview room door. The noise of the busy office was like nails on a chalkboard, making the urge to throw up increase tenfold. He struggled to unfold himself, blindly reaching out for the water they had poured for him.

The cool water helped to ease the weight on his chest, the phantom feeling going back to being a memory. He closed his eyes, putting down the empty cup before rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Watching…

Miles snapped his head up, searching for what his spider-sense was going on about. He found someone standing by the water cooler, folder in hand, looking straight at him. He was tempted to dismiss his spider-sense as overreacting - responding to frayed nerves - before they held the folder up and then dropped it into the bin behind them. Still watching him.

They moved away, unhurried, until they turned a corner and were out of sight.

He grabbed the cup on the table and moved quickly towards the water cooler. Crouching down, with one hand he added water to the cup at the same moment he stuffed the folder under his hoodie.

Throwing the cup back and swallowing the last of the cold water, he dropped the plastic cup into the bin and hurried out of the police station.

Case #: O92786 Date: xx/xx/xxxx

Reporting Officer: Dave

Incident:

Anonymous tip filed about bug spray smell at 1st and 43rd. Found large, Caucasian person sitting near fence. Incoherent mutterings about “owls” and “hurt.” Pupils visibily misaligned.

Officer Dave called paramedics. Victim became unconscious before paramedics arrived and was declared dead by paramedics upon arrival.

Miles leaned back, chewing absently on his pen. Why did that want him to have this? Obviously, they wanted him to investigate - but why him? They must know that he was Spider-Man…

His eyes flicked over to his wardrobe, knowing that a half-repaired spare suit was waiting for him in his sewing box. He hadn’t added the zip to the back, having not wanted to go through the annoying process of adding the U-shaped zipper. He could probably finish it and add his half-finished air filtration system he had been tinkering with before - it had been intended to make fighting in sewers easier but maybe it could mute the effects of the ‘bug spray’ he was now all too familiar with.

He studied the cast on his left arm. Six weeks had passed from the worst time of his life and this was all that was left to show of it. He wasn’t skin and bones anymore - all his stitches had scarred over. Even the cast was basically redundant: he knew that the bones had stitched themselves together by now.

He was ready to go back to being Spider-Man.

The job that had landed him in the worst time of his life.

Glancing at the folder again didn’t give him any more clarity. Did he really want to go back to his 'second job?'

He got up, giving into the restless urge to pace. He had to at least find out the people behind it, right? Erase any information they had on him, figure out why they had done all that to him. Right?

They could come right after him, again. He had to take them down. Even if the mere thought of confronting it all made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Decision reluctantly made, he spent the next hour carefully sewing the suit together, adding the filters into the mask.

Halfway through, Ganke came back from his after-school tech club and flopped down on his bed. Noticeably, he didn’t comment, only moving to put on some music.

As he went to put it on he quickly figured out his oversight. His cast. He couldn’t put his arm in without tearing the seams of his costume. Mumbling to himself, he pulled out an extra zipper from his supplies and made the arm detachable. One webshooter would just have to do.

Costume finally on he approached the mirror on the back of the door. Far from making him elated, instead, he struggled to swallow the bile building at the back of his throat.

“I was wondering when you would finally put it back on,” Ganke finally spoke up, sitting up and leaning against the wall.

Miles hesitated to answer. “I didn’t think I would at all.”

He saw Ganke give him a knowing smile in the reflection of the mirror. “‘Great Power, Great Responsibility’ would have made you do it eventually.”

With Ganke covering for him back at the dorm, Miles bussed as close as he could to the intersection in the report before swinging onto a nearby roof and pulling off his civilian clothes and stuffing them into his backpack.

This was it: he was really going to be Spider-Man again. Dragging his eyes from the backpack tucked into the corner, he walked to the edge of the roof and crouched down.

Ok, game face on.

There was nothing that immediately stood out to him about this intersection. It was warehouse after warehouse stretching all around. If someone was doing something shifty this would be an ideal place.

He closed his eyes, taking a calming deep breath before stretching his awareness out - tapping into his spider-sense to try to find a lead. He waited in the cool night air, listening to a rat skittering down a grate, the dripping of a leaky faucet two streets down, the breeze rustling a trash bag on the curb, and then…

There. A door opening and closing, a whirring sound following close behind. Narrowing in on it, he took a running start and jumped over to the next building, following the direction of the sound until he was on a barely standing warehouse, skylights pouring the moonlight into the otherwise dusty interior.

Instinct told him to hold back and wait, so he crouched lower and slunk into the shadows. Muscles tense, quickly growing sore from lack of practice, he closed his eyes and willed himself to be patient.

It paid off. A rattling truck quickly approached the warehouse, boots dropped to the ground and a garage door was hauled open. The truck reversed in, parking close to the door as it was closed again. 

In a flurry of activity the back was open and goods were hauled out, including a bedraggled man wearing clothes with noticeable rips and holes. They were tied up on a stretcher with a cloth gag in their mouth.

Fingers twitching to move, he knew he had to remain still and wait for the right moment. The whirring sound started up again and in front of his disbelieving eyes, the once-empty space of concrete floor cracked apart, being pulled apart so a platform underneath could be lifted up into place.

The platform had several lab scientists, a tube big enough to fit a person, and a massive control board. The wide-eyed person was untied and, despite flailing arms and a brief attempt to get away, they were quickly manhandled into the tube. 

He shifted closer, a weight on his chest. Miles’s eyes kept on darting between the scientists, intently focused on them. He could hardly breathe - his whole body so tense his muscles began to protest.

One of the scientists dismissively flicked their hand towards one of the crew at the control panel, and all of a sudden the room lit up with a bright light, forcing him to close his eyes. That's when the screaming began.

Blood curdling, wretched screams from the person he should have saved - why didn’t he save them? His own throat ached in sympathy. Then the screaming began to gurgle, before it tapered off and was replaced with clawing.

The room went dark again and he finally looked around again. The tube was filled with a dark shape, and in horror, he realized that whatever was in the tube wasn’t human anymore. It had multiple limbs sprouting erratically across its body, half-formed. Its clothes had been ripped off and were replaced with a thick layer of dark brown hair. Lying on the floor of the tube it twitched once, twice, then fell deathly still.

The scientist who had ordered this gave a frustrated sigh. “Get another one in here,” she ordered.

Not allowing himself the time to second guess, Miles smashed through the skylight and landed directly on the control panel. He raised his fist, blue electricity lighting up the otherwise dark room. It crumpled, smashing in two with a single punch.

He stood back up, facing the goons, chest heaving and fists clenched. “I’m back,” he hissed, fury making what was meant to be lighthearted impossible to say any other way.

Guns were raised, glinting in the moonlight, but he was quicker. There were only ten of them: hardly an issue.

Webs trapped the first. He jump-kicked into the next, using them like a launching platform to handspring and smash the guy behind him into the ground. Grabbing the muzzle of the nearest goon’s gun, he ripped it out of their hand and swung it into the person on his left, letting the guy and the gun clatter to the ground.

The goon he had taken the gun from reared back to punch him but he simply grabbed their other arm and used them like a battering ram. Three were toppled into the ground and he webbed them up. Seven down.

In the time it had taken for them to go down, the last three had backed away and finally had their guns ready. He turned invisible just as the first of the muzzle flashes lit up the room.

He danced through the bullet fire, gleefully putting all his trust into his spider-sense to keep him from getting hurt. At the same moment he webbed one goon’s chest and arms to their truck, he sucker punched another into the wall. The goon slumped down, head lolling in unconsciousness.

He turned to the last goon, teeth bared in a grin he knew they couldn’t see. “Your turn.”

Instead of dropping the gun, putting their hands up in surrender, or anything like that, they smiled like they knew something he didn’t.

Watch out!

He was too late - something hit his neck and wrapped around it, not even letting him fall to the ground before he was lifted into the air. He grabbed at the cold metal, wedging a space between it and his throat so he could breathe. 

Still recovering from the sudden lack of air, it took him a moment too long to realize he was being floated closer to the scientists. 

The head scientist lifted her hand, and he stopped in midair. “At least we’ve had one success tonight,” she remarked.

His eyes darted around until he found the source of his problem. Like she had been dragged out of The Ring, a lady was standing off to the side with one hand extended towards him. She was barefoot and wearing a matching white cotton shirt and pants. Her hair was untied and falling in front of her face but he could still see her glowing blue eyes through them. Yet she held herself like she was about to fall, shaking with exhaustion.

She was using telekinesis… They were using Jasmine’s power…

Understanding dawned on him all at once. He knew what they were trying to do.

“It won’t work,” he choked out, “you’ll never figure out my powers.”

The scientist lady scowled. “I have all the resources I need, I will bend it to my will. I just need time. And the source.”

Miles didn’t need to hear anything more. He couldn’t let that happen. A web shot to the chest was all the distraction needed for the Ring lady to drop him.

He wrenched the metal around his neck in half, tucking into a roll to avoid the bullets from the lone guard. With all his might he threw the scrap at them but didn’t wait to see the result. He smashed through the closest window and took off running towards his backpack.

He webbed himself up on to the nearest building and took off sprinting, easily leaping between buildings until he was there.

As he went to grab the bag something cold was pressed into the small of his back. He froze.

“If you know what’s good for you,” the gravelly voice whispered into his ear, “you’ll take off that silly little costume and give up being Spider-Man.”

It was a sword-- there was a sword being pressed into his back. Yet his spider-sense was quiet. They weren’t planning on hurting him.

“Or what?” He challenged.

“Or Jefferson Davis and Rio Morales will each get a bullet to the head.”

Miles wrenched himself around, not caring that he cut his suit in the move, and reared back to punch them. Instead, pain exploded from his cheek and he collapsed to the ground. He grabbed the boot just as it stomped onto his stomach, muting the force of the blow.

The man above him had a skeleton mask, a white cape, and black armor with yellow highlights. “Who are you?” he gasped out.

“A warning.” The Skeleton Guy grabbed something off their belt and dropped it. His vision was obscured in a cloud of smoke and at the same moment, the weight on his stomach was lifted.

When the smoke was finally cleared, the skeleton man was gone.

Despite the weight being gone, Miles still struggled to breathe through his overwhelming panic.

Miles carefully slid the window open before climbing inside. He put his bag down and locked the window, leaning his head against it for a long moment.

His Mamá and Dad were fine. He had stopped by and watched them sleeping for almost five minutes before he was able to tear himself away and head home. He knew it was creepy, but it was the only thing that had calmed his racing heart. 

“Miles?” Ganke sleepily called out, the sheets rustling as he sat up in bed.

His mouth went dry. “Go back to sleep Ganke, I’m fine.” Physically. Physically he was fine.

There was more rustling and Miles finally looked over at Ganke. He had propped his pillow up and was rubbing at his eyes. “No, I’ve got to know how it went,” he yawned.

His fists curled in on themselves, gritting his teeth.

“... I found some scientists experimenting on someone and I destroyed some of their equipment, then came home,” he finally explained, straightening up and closing the curtains. “Not much to talk about.”

“Oh, I get it. Yeah, that must have rattled you. Have you thought more about seeing one of the school counselors?”

Miles climbed up the ladder to his bunker. “I’m not going to see them - I can’t tell them anything about my life.”

“They are bound by, like, laws and stuff, so they can’t tell anyone else,” Ganke protested.

Miles couldn’t help his huff of disbelief. “Sure, like that will do much. It’s not like they would try to stop me being Spider-Man or anything even if I did tell them since I’d be ‘recklessly endangering’ myself. Look, I’m tired and we’ve got school.” 

Ganke made a murmur of protest but settled back to sleep anyway. Miles stared unblinking at the ceiling, things he wanted to spill to his friend bubbling away in his chest but knowing he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t explain all the conflicting emotions, conflicting thoughts, and everything that had happened to him without him really knowing why it had happened. Or how he just wanted to throw the towel in.

It would all be too much for his friend, who idealized the idea of what Spider-Man was.

He turned onto his side, balling up tightly. He couldn’t tell anyone about the threats on his parents' lives, and he couldn’t stop being Spider-Man now. Not when he knew what they were doing to people. He couldn’t let other people suffer through what he had.

He couldn’t fail another stranger like he had that man.

With his cast finally off, Miles was free to fidget with his hands at his next 'interview.'

“Okay, so you tried to escape and failed. You’re saying they then did another surgery on your legs?” Smith probed.

“Before you ask, I didn’t even take the dressings off. I don’t know what they did but after it, I couldn’t even stand.” Miles cut Smith off before he could question it further.

Smith hummed. “Trying to prevent you from breaking out again?”

He shrugged.

Smith scribbled something down and leaned back in his chair. “But you said last time you began starving yourself after this?”

“Yeah. When my legs got infected it was… easier to not eat when I was so nauseous. Kept them from probing at me.” Miles blinked a few times, struggling to keep away the feverish memories of that week. “Can we… can we come back to this later? I’m done for today.”

He saw Smith roll his eyes from the corner of his eyes and felt a wave of righteous anger threaten to swallow him. The fact he was here at all was a miracle. He just hoped Amy, with how young she was, had a different Detective interviewing her then insensitive asshole here.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll schedule a time for you to come back in,” Smith said with a deep sigh. He stood up and left the room, leaving the door open like last time.

Miles finally let himself relax, lounging back against the chair. He studied the office, eyes dancing between the various people.

Sure enough, his spider-sense began to perk up and he took the time to study the person with the folders. She had her hair up in a neat bun, pencil skirt falling to just above her knees and a button-up shirt. She gave him a smile he couldn’t read and dropped a new folder in the water cooler’s bin.

Miles picked it up on the way out.

Goons and scientists webbed up, data on a spare USB, all the machines smashed, Miles took vicious satisfaction as he dialed 911 for police to come around. No one got turned into a spider amalgamation and he wasn’t almost captured.

All that done, he stepped out into the twilight of Midtown New York. A cool breeze drifted around him, allowing him a moment to regroup himself. Whoever these people were, the USB would get him one step closer to taking them down.

A shrill alarm snapped him to attention.

As he took off swinging towards the sound, he realized with a start that this would be his first official public outing as Spider-Man since his kidnapping. The thought thrilled him, but the bubble of nerves surrounding the safety of his parents grew in turn.

It was a bank robbery, because of course it was. Already there were police cars stationed outside, and an ambulance.

He swung in, flipping onto the nearest cruiser. The thump drew the attention of the nearest police officer who was ducked behind it for safety.

“Spider-Man,” he exclaimed, tone hinting on wondrous.

“How can I help?” Miles asked, doing his best to survey the scene.

The police officer shook himself to attention, “There are at least four robbers in there, all armed. They’ve shot one of us, but he’s okay. It was just in the foot.”

“Any hostages?”

“No, they were allowed to flee.”

Miles nodded to him, “Thanks for the information. I’ll make-” 

His eyes drifted to the ambulance and realized who exactly was being treated.

Dad. Dad was hurt. Was this part of the Skeleton Guy’s threat or-?

Car!

Miles dived for the helpful police officer, bodily hoisting him out of the way as a car rammed into the cruiser, flipping it onto its side, and with screeching tires took off down the road.

Dropping the stunned police officer, he turned and sprinted down the road, taking a running start before he started webbing after the car. Every arch got him closer and closer to the car, so close he prepared to jump onto it.

Look out!

Glancing to the side earned him a boot to the face. He hurtled towards the closest building, tucking into a ball in time to smash through the glass. Crashing through almost a dozen desks, he narrowly missed the stunned office workers in the process.

Skidding to a stop, he didn’t give himself time to take in the pain from the glass embedded in him as he hoisted himself up onto his elbows. His attacker's confident strides echoed around the office which had gone dead silent. 

Miles rolled himself into a crouch, defensively preparing for a fight. Only for the blood to drain from his face as he recognized the figure. It was Skeleton Guy. 

“Did- Did the swords come with the mask at Spirit Halloween? Gotta say, you’re way too early for Halloween,” Miles managed to joke, all too aware of the recovering office workers who were peering out to watch.

“I thought my message was clear last time,” the Skeleton Guy said, unholstering the swords on his back and confidently swinging them around. They were as long as his torso and glinted in the office lighting.

“Whoever you’re working for, you can tell them it isn’t going to happen,” Miles declared.

In a flurry of movement, Skeleton Guy dove towards Miles. Miles ducked under the first sword swing and jumped out of the way of the second. He turned around and attempted to web one to the wall, but missed.

Skeleton Guy attempted to slice him again but he managed to sidestep it, twisting the movement into a kick to the torso. Instead, his leg was grabbed and he was thrown into the nearest cubicle wall.

Miles attempted to dive out of the way of his next attack but didn’t have the room - he was too slow.

Searing pain lit up his left arm as he was kicked onto the ground, the cubicle he was on being flattened to the floor. A crunching sound made him nauseous but he didn’t dare look over to see what was wrong. His left arm was out of the fight: that was all he needed to know.

Miles balled his right arm into a fist and attempted to punch him but Skeleton Guy caught his fist like it was nothing. He curled his feet towards himself, managing to kick him across the room despite the awkward position.

Miles attempted to get up but vicious pain made him stop.

The sword had been driven through his hand. Shit.

He grabbed for the sword, desperately trying to dislodge it in the second he had, but he couldn’t. All he succeeded in was cutting his other hand on the sharp edge of the blade.

Too late. Skeleton Guy was over him, easily grabbing his legs and pinning them to his chest when he attempted to fight back. He reared back for another punch but only earned himself a boot pinning that down too.

“You will listen to me, Miles Morales,” Skeleton Guy hissed, thankfully only loud enough for him to hear, leaning on the sword and driving it further down. He blinked through the tears of pain, refusing to let himself so much as whimper.

“It’s Spider-Man while I’m on the job,” he spat back, chest heaving.

“Jefferson’s foot is strike two. There won't be a third. Stay out of OWL’s business, or I’ll personally make sure he’s six feet under,” Skeleton Guy threatened, before dropping his feet ungraciously.

In one smooth motion, the sword was pulled out of his hand and the floor. Miles almost gagged at the feeling of his bones shifting back. But he didn’t dare look anywhere else but his adversary.

“Hope we don’t meet again,” Skeleton Guy said louder before he was striding across the office and jumped out of the smashed window.

With a woozy head, Miles sat up, cradling his hand and watched as ink-red blood pooled on the ground. His web shooter was smashed to pieces, pieces of it embedded in the hole left behind. He would have to replace that.

“Spider-Man?” a voice gently called, the words laced with concern. It snapped him back to attention. Right, he was in an office. The office he had crashed into. Which had people who worked there for a living.

He swallowed and got to the process of webbing his injury as well as he could before he could get it treated. “I’m okay,” he reassured, grateful for the mask that hid his face. “‘Tis but a flesh wound.”

When he looked up at the speaker, he found a curly-haired man in office-casual crouched down in front of him. They clearly didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe him either.

“Do you need an ambulance?” they offered. Miles shook his head, growing increasingly nervous as he spotted how many phones were out. Filming him.

“No, I’ll be fine. I, uh, have some robbers to stop. I’ll see myself out,” Miles stood up, the kind office worker standing in turn. As he went to walk away, they put a hand on his shoulder and he froze.

“We all missed you, you know. It’s good to have you back, Spidey.” Then the hand let him go and he immediately missed the small comfort.

“Thanks,” he choked out, then determinedly walked forward and jumped out of the window.

His injured hand tucked close to his body, he swung in the direction the car had been going. He found the car smashed into a light pole halfway down the block, police officers surrounding it.

Miles landed on the nearest cruiser that had a police officer next to it. They startled before realizing who it was. “Oh, Spider-Man.”

It was the police officer he had saved. “Sorry for scaring you… and for not stopping the thieves. I was, uh, preoccupied.”

“Wish you hadn’t been - by the time we got down here they had all fled. It was almost like they crashed on purpose,” the police officer hummed.

Miles studied the officer’s face closely. He took a deep breath before asking, “They didn’t happen to have, I don’t know, any owl insignia on them?”

They frowned. “Yeah. Why? Do you know something?”

“Just a hunch,” Miles admitted, proud of how his voice didn’t waver. He shifted and immediately regretted it when excruciating pain reminded him of his newest injury. He winced and tucked the hand closer to his body.

“Spidey? Are you okay?” 

“Just fine. I’m going to go now, thanks for your help,” he bit out before webbing himself onto the nearest rooftop. He took off running until he found his bag two blocks away,

As he crouched down next to it, his phone started ringing shrilly. Digging it out, he lifted his mask and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hello Miles Morales, you have an appointment to see Mr. Fisk.”

Chapter Text

“Is this a stupid joke?” Miles bit out, pacing along the edge of the rooftop. “Fisk is in jail.”

“Of course not,” the person on the other end cooed as if he was a child needing to be calmed. “No one wants to waste anyone else’s time in this business. Come by as soon as you can, and he’ll see you.”

“Well, hang on-” the phone call ended. He glared down at the phone, teeth gritted. His phone trilled as a message came through. It was an address.

If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. If this was reality, it was his worst nightmare. If it was a trap, well… wouldn’t be the first today.

Reluctantly taking a deep breath to calm himself down, he went back to his backpack and pocketed the phone. He unwrapped the webs around his hand and pulled out his small first aid kit, doing his best with what he had. It wasn’t much, but hiding the bandages under his glove would at least hide this weakness.

His backpack stuffed away again, he took off swinging with the one webshooter he had.

The address led to a shiny, tall, pretentious building in the middle of downtown. He didn’t bother suppressing his scowl at the sight of it. Nevertheless, he let himself fall into a roll and walk into the lobby. It was massive, ceiling stretched high above - ten stories of empty air for no other reason but to prove his wealth.

He ignored the astonished looks following his every move, keeping his head held high.

The lady at the desk barely even blinked at the sight of him. “Here to see Mr. Fisk?” She drawled,  typing rapidly into her computer.

“Yeah. Turns out I have an appointment,” he said, barely disguising the sneer in his voice. There were security guards everywhere, more than one staring directly at him. He crossed his arms and stared right back.

She pointed with her thumb. “Take the fourth elevator on your right. He’ll be right with you.”

He nodded and strolled over to the elevator.

I’m not afraid of him, he repeated like a mantra in his head, trying to ooze self-confidence as he walked past all the onlookers.

He stepped into the elevator, alone. When he turned to the buttons he found only two. Up or down. He pressed up and leaned back against the wall at the back, allowing himself a small moment to grip his head in panic before straightening up. He had this. 

The elevator pinged and the doors opened wide to reveal a big open space. There was a desk over on the far side surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the New York skyline. There was nothing in between him and the desk to warrant the waste of space. His whole apartment could fit in here three times over.

As he strode forward, the chair turned slowly, revealing the pudgy-headed, square-bodied Fisk in all his glory.

Miles stopped a few feet away from the desk, crossing his arms and glaring at Fisk. “What do you want?” he spit out.

Fisk grinned at him, shark-like. “Miles Morales, the amazing Spider-Man. I never got the chance to… congratulate you on taking down my plans last year.”

“How do you know who I am?” he almost yelled, taking an aggressive step forward, his hands dropped to his side in tight fists.

Fisk was clearly reveling in the moment. “You got sloppy.” He leaned forward as if he was going to share a secret with him. “Don’t you wonder how they kidnapped you all those months ago? You got sloppy, and then word got around.”

Miles flinched back like he had been struck, chest heaving. He wanted to deny everything about this, but he knew it was too late. This was happening. His worst enemy knew his greatest weakness.

Fisk pulled out a folder from under his desk, sliding it towards him. “One little detail and everything can be revealed,” he taunted.

Miles thwipped a web at the folder, snatching it up without moving any closer. He flicked through it quickly. He wasn’t lying. There was his address, his school’s address, emergency contact details, what dorm number he lived in, a map of the campus, what hospital his Mamá worked at, the hospital he was at after he was kidnapped, Detective Smith and his notes from their interviews. It went on and on, so many pages of notes on everything about him.

“Why hasn’t anyone attacked us yet?” He was whispering, but Fisk heard him anyway.

Fisk absently waved his hand, “Only so many of us are aware, and only so many of us care. Owl doesn’t understand the threat you are, Miles Morales. But I do. I know that even though you’re only fifteen you are powerful.”

Miles narrowed his eyes at him, “Stop trying to butter me up and get to the point.”

“Simple. I want you to take down OWL for me.”

He straightened up, closing the folder but keeping it by his side. “Who’s OWL?”

Fisk’s grin only sharpened, and he regretted asking immediately. He’d only revealed how ignorant he was to the threat coming down on him like a hammer.

“My rival, one could say. He tried to fill the vacuum you left with my arrest. He’s established himself well enough to be causing me problems, and you -” Fisk gestured to Miles - “you are what he’s trying to create.”

Miles digested the information, thinking back to the laboratory. “... He’s trying to create enhanced people to, what, challenge you? That’s why he’s kidnapped so many people with powers?”

“Precisely. You understand.”

Miles gave him a piercing look, “So what do you want with me?”

“Take him down. I’ll supply you with all the information you need, locations, weaknesses, and so on. I’ll keep him from killing your family. I know what he did to Jefferson today,” he answered. “We’re both family men after all.”

Right, the whole reason for the collider in the first place. To bring his dead family back to life. It was never going to work the way it was intended, but his dedication to making it a reality had been staggering.

“Then what?” Miles demanded, throwing his arms out. “What happens when OWL is gone and it’s back to just you and me?”

Fisk shrugged. “I suppose I could offer you a scholarship. Full ride, anywhere in the world.” He leaned forward. “Your grades prove it: you’re smart. If you can direct it elsewhere, stay out of my business, even focus on other ‘mob bosses’ if you so foolishly insist on chasing your death… I can be generous. We can compromise.”

He couldn’t answer, just staring at Fisk. His tongue was locked in his throat, choking down any sound he could make. Fisk wanted to bribe him. Fisk could protect his family from the Skeleton Guy. Fisk knew everything about him, down to the most minute detail.

Fisk smiled, shark-like. There’s blood in the water. “But that can all wait for another day.”

“Why are you helping me?” he whispered.

“I’m a businessman. We have a common enemy. It’s very simple math.”

Fisk pulled out another folder, holding it out to him. “We can get started right now. This is another Owl facility. I’ll have more waiting for you when you’re done with that one. Rest assured, your parents will have around-the-clock protection from tonight.”

Miles reluctantly took it from him, knowing full well that he had signed a deal with the devil. He just wasn’t sure what the full cost on his soul would be.

Walking out the door, folders in hand, Miles couldn’t shake the feeling that he had never left the dark cell of the facility. He was just a mouse in a maze.

Picking through the already-healing stab wound to get pieces of the broken webshooter out of his hand was a long and painful process. Miles had laid his first-aid supplies around him and leaned against his desk drawers, towel on his lap to catch any blood. His suit was still on except for his mask, which he had haphazardly thrown on the desk.

His spider-sense kept giving a dull warning like he was being watched, but the curtains were closed and there hadn’t been any movement around him. His nerves were probably just fried, but knowing that didn’t make the process any easier.

He was hyper-aware of the folders on his desk, too. Their very presence put him on edge, a harsh reminder of his reality.

There was a click and Miles webbed whatever had made the sound to the wall. He blinked: oh crap.

“Miles?” Ganke tentatively called, half inside the room with his hand stuck to the light switch. 

He quickly shifted his stuff to the floor. “Sorry!” Grabbing some web solvent from his top desk drawer, he opened the door wider so Ganke could finally get inside. He locked the door before beginning the process of spreading the liquid across his bindings.

“You’re, uh, really jumpy,” Ganke commented.

Miles’s eyes drifted over to the folders on his desk, the USB on top of them. When he snapped back to attention and continued dissolving the webs he knew Ganke had seen what he had been looking at.

“Long day,” he said in lieu of explanation, stepping back as the last of it dissolved.

Ganke finally dropped his bag and surveyed the room. He turned back to Miles. “Are you okay?”

He couldn’t help but tense. “I’m fine,” he bit out.

“Look, you getting stabbed in the hand has gone viral. Everyone’s seen it, including me. That guy with the sword got you pretty good.” Ganke had such a worried look on his face, but it only fueled the raging fire inside of him.

“Ganke,” he hissed, “I’m fine. I told you that. The video made it look worse than it is. Seriously.”

Ganke didn’t take the cue, giving him a disbelieving look much to his chagrin.

“No, I saw how you struggled to get that sword out of your hand, stop lying to me! That was a lot of blood. Don’t act so, so-”

“So what?”

“Nonchalant! I know you, I’ve seen you in battle. You would have been at least whimpering in pain or something before you were kidnapped. Not to mention how shell-shocked you were afterwards. Even with that mask on I know you,” Ganke exploded. “And you’ve been hiding your hand ever since I got into the room-”

Miles lifted his hand, shoving it in Ganke’s face. “Is that what you wanted to see? A half-healed stab wound? It’ll be healed in a few days anyway, what does it matter?”

Miles turned away, plucking the bandages from his first aid kit and beginning to wrap it up. Ganke followed him. “You should be taking this more seriously! You got beaten in your first public fight, just, talk about it. You used to give me play-by-plays of being Spider-Man and now-”

“Is that all this is to you? Your fucking entertainment?!” Miles yelled, abandoning the task of wrapping his hand. 

“What? No!” His face was so crestfallen that Miles almost regretted his words. “I was trying to say that you just- you’re not dealing with your issues. You’re snappy and skittish and I just want to help-”

“You try being happy and joke-y and- and whatever after what I went through! Oh, I’m so sorry that I’m not thinking about other people’s feelings when I’m trying to take down the people who used my body like a playground!” Miles shouldered past Ganke, grabbed his backpack and haphazardly started shoving stuff into it.

“I don’t care if you’re being an asshole! I just want you to be ok and you’re not.”

Miles grabbed the folders and put them in his backpack, then grabbed his mask and shoved it back on. Ganke grabbed his hand, stopping him. “Please, I can handle hearing about it.”

Miles finally looked him in the eyes. Tears were welling up in Ganke’s eyes, he looked desperate. “No, you can’t. In fact, how about you stay the hell away from me until I’ve dealt with this, yeah? I don’t need a ‘guy in the chair’ whose biggest credential is hacking a library’s database.”

He ripped his hand out of Ganke’s grip and climbed out the window without looking back. “I hope your Dad gets better soon,” he heard Ganke say. Soft. Quiet. Like he expected Miles to have leapt away already.

For a moment, he hesitated. The smoldering coals left in him cried out for him to apologize. To go back and repair the relationship with the only person who had a chance of understanding what he was going through.

A bigger part of him knew that he had to keep Ganke out of danger. If OWL thought he didn’t have any friends, there were no friends to target. One less person to lose.

He jumped away, blinking away his own tears.

In civilian clothes, he used his key to let himself into the apartment. He could hear the TV in the other room playing something on a low volume and his parents having a hushed conversation.

Purposefully he closed the door loud enough for them to realize he was home, dropping his bag by the door and walking into the living area. His injured hand was stuffed into his hoodie, out of sight.

“Hey Miles, wasn’t sure if you were going to be coming home this weekend or not,” his Dad greeted him, sitting up.

“Had to make sure you were ok,” he shrugged, walking around to sit with them. Only to pause at the sight of the cast. His foot was propped up onto the coffee table with a pillow and the red cast extended from his toes to a third of the way up his shin. A pair of crutches leaned against the couch behind him.

It had been one thing to see him in an ambulance. It was another to know that his being Spider-Man had led to this ‘warning’ shot. To see it in person? How his Dad looked slightly out of it from pain meds? Yeah, that was when it struck him just how much danger they were all in.

He blinked himself out of his thoughts and gave them a reassuring smile. They had been watching him closely in those few seconds, and he knew he had to cover for it quickly. “Exciting day out in the field, huh?”

Mamá patted the couch cushion next to her and he obliged, letting her wrap a blanket around him and generally fuss over him.

“Just a part of the job. I’ll be okay,” Dad reassured, throwing a hand around his shoulders.

He relaxed into it. “I guess so.”

Mamá turned the volume back up on the documentary they were watching, and he let himself forget the threat hanging over them for just a few hours.

As he got ready for bed, brushing his teeth, words drifted through from the living room.

“Did you see his face when he saw my cast?” His Dad whispered, unaware that he could hear them.

“Yeah… I’ve been reading some books and I think that was a flashback. I know we haven’t pushed yet, but he won’t talk to us. I think we need to get him a therapist.”

There was the sound of some rustling like they had shifted closer together. “Can we afford that?”

“We’ll use some of our savings if we need to. It’ll be okay. If he needs it, he needs it.”

There was a hum of agreement. He took a shuddering breath in, wiping away a stray tear.

Miles was fine. Sure, he had been kidnapped. But he starved himself. That was a choice he made. Sure, he had been prepared to use a gun to kill people if it meant escaping, but was that really such a big deal? He had been thinking of giving up being Spider-Man, but every Spider-person probably had at some point. He was… he was fine. He was handling things just fine, there was no need for anyone to worry about him.

No one was buying that he was okay, though. He had to put on a better mask. He had to be okay.

He spat the toothpaste out and went to bed, determined to prove it.

The next folder led him to a warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen.

Backpack safely stored a block away, Miles approached the warehouse cautiously. This warehouse looked newer - like they had actually put some money into making it look nice. It starkly contrasted against the last two. They had been a phone call away from being condemned.

Creeping close to the edge of the neighboring building, he spotted two people with guns guarding the back door. In the moonless evening, the only thing illuminating them was a small light above the door.

He slowly moved around the perimeter, keeping himself low and hidden, trying to find a better way in but finding none. In the renovations, it looked like they had removed all the windows- all but one large roller door and this backdoor.

Inconvenient, but he could work with this.

He jumped across to the warehouse, landing with a roll. Pausing for a moment to see if the sound had alerted the guards, he positioned himself above the back door to figure out how best to get rid of them.

An outright fight could get loud quickly, alerting anyone inside. If they so much as grabbed their walkie-talkies on their belt, he could lose the element of surprise. He needed every advantage he could gain.

A simple but effective plan came to mind.

He camouflaged and walked down the wall, crouching down when he was just above the light. Grinning, he tapped the one to the left on their shoulder.

“What’s up, Dave?” the left guy said to the guy on the right.

Right guy - Dave - turned to him. “What?”

“You tapped my shoulder. What do you want?”

Dave gave him a look like he was insane. “I didn’t poke you. You’re imagining things, dude. I told you to stop drinking so much.”

Left Guy huffed, leaning back against the door. “I did stop, and I’m not hallucinating. I told you that I hadn’t had any for, like, a week.”

“Whatever, dude,” Dave grumbled.

They both turned back to the alleyway, shuffling about until they were comfortable. He waited until the count of ten before he poked Left Guy again.

“Dude! Stop doing that!” Left Guy shouted, whirling around to face Dave.

Dave threw his free hand up in the air, “I ain’t done nothing! You knock it off!”

“I didn’t do jack. Keep your hands to yourself, asshole,” Left Guy spat.

Now with folded arms and hackles raised, Left Guy and Dave pointedly positioned themselves with their backs to each other. Perfect. He shuffled further up the wall and to the side, directly above Dave.

In the blink of an eye, he had his mouth webbed shut, arms pinned to his side and was yanked up onto the rooftop. He squirmed but was blissfully silent. Success.

Crawling back down the wall. He couldn’t help his gleeful smile as he tapped Left Guy’s shoulder again.

“Dave! I told you…” his words drifted off as he saw that the spot previously occupied by Dave was empty. He slowly looked around, gun up, scanning his environment. His hand was shaking.

Not wanting to prolong this interaction, he put Left Guy out of his misery and webbed him up, leaving him lying next to Dave.

Rolling his shoulders, he allowed himself a moment to stretch. Show time.

Lightly dropping to the ground, he tried the door - only to find it locked. Annoyed, he hesitated only a second before giving it a good tug, breaking the door’s lock. At some point he needed to learn how to pick locks, but today wasn’t that day. 

Slipping into the pitch-black darkness, he had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust. While he did, he stepped closer to the wall and climbed up high, blending into the shadows.

There was nowhere to hide. It was completely empty except for a stack of boxes in the center of the room. He didn’t let that lull him into a false sense of security. As the last warehouse had bitterly demonstrated, whoever OWL was they were willing to pay top dollar to hide their illegal experiments in inventive ways.

With no movement, no suspicious cracks in the floor and nothing setting off his spider-sense, he tentatively stepped back onto level ground and warily approached the boxes.

They were filled to the brim with folders and loose bits of paper. He picked up the closest piece of paper, flipping it over. It was a profile of a person. Of… Jasmine.

He skimmed it quickly. It was like Fisk’s folder, but less detailed. Her address. Her school. Her grades. Her powers. What part of her DNA controls it. How it can be applied to non-enhanced people. They had figured out her powers completely, and she hadn’t been at the facility very long. All they had needed was a couple of samples, by the looks of it.

Yet, they still hadn’t figured out his. There must be a different mechanism behind his abilities-

The sound of a lever snapped him back to his surroundings. He melted into invisibility, putting the paper back into the box, and watched as smoke filled the warehouse from a new gap in the middle of the floor.

Stepping back towards the wall, Miles cautiously crouched lower and went invisible. He was more grateful than ever for his new air filter. The smoke slowly dissipated, lights coming on in a blinding flash of light. As he blinked rapidly to adjust, eyes squinted, he nearly missed the gap in the floor beginning to widen. 

A platform emerged with several guards and a guy with a fishbowl on his head. The platform smoothly clicked into place, so seamless he wouldn’t have thought there was an empty space beneath the floor.

Fishbowl Guy was covered head to toe in a padded green suit with a purple cape flowing down his back. As nervous as Miles was, laughter bubbled up and threatened to alert them to his position. Of all the costumes to wear, that was what this guy had chosen?

What really drew his attention, though, was that all the guards had gas masks on. Yep, this had been a trap. If it was Fisk’s design was a different question.

“Um, Mysterio sir? Spider-Man isn’t… here,” one of the guards said, looking at Fishbowl guy - Mysterio - expectantly. 

“The cameras showed he came in. He has to be here somewhere. He must have used his camouflage or whatever it is,” Mysterio dismissed, walking further into the room. “He might just be passed out somewhere invisible. I want a thorough sweep.”

Miles’s fingers started to tingle as he stretched his invisibility beyond its limits. He took a long, slow breath, willing his racing heart to calm. There wasn’t anyone to rescue, only evidence to collect. He would rather be alive and safe than be captured again in the pursuit of some papers.

His mind made up, he quickly started moving back towards the door, footsteps light and quiet. The guards were scattered everywhere in the warehouse, making long sweeping motions with their legs as they attempted to search for a presumed invisible Spider-Man. It would be relatively easy to sneak out unnoticed.

There was a clicking noise, and his spider-sense immediately flared.

“There you are!”

Quicker than he could move, chains sprung out of the walls and the floor wrapping around his whole body and forcing him to the floor. On his knees, gasping for breath, Miles strained against them. The chains creaked ominously but refused to break.

“Welcome, Miles, so glad to host you this fine evening,” Mysterio taunted, moving around him so they were face to face.

He swallowed, “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

Mysterio laughed. “I’m surprised you’re even awake! I didn’t think it would take so little time for you to become immune to my little concoction. I’m so glad I installed heat sensors into this thing-” he tapped against the stupid fishbowl- “otherwise you might have gotten away after all.”

He tilted Miles’s head side to side, and a shiver of disgust went down his spine. “You really are an interesting specimen.”

Quick as a flash, though still battling against the chains determined to bury him into the ground, Miles whipped a leg out and swiped Mysterio’s out from under him. He went down with an undignified yelp, denting the fishbowl with a comedic ‘pop’.

All this high-tech fancy equipment and the fishbowl was made out of plastic. Miles couldn’t contain his grin at that.

Mysterio got back up, brushing himself off. Miles could feel his glower even through the opaque fishbowl. Mysterio wound up, and all Miles could do was brace himself for the punch.

The blow hit him square in the side of the face, catching his mask on a stray straight edge and ripping it. Miles blinked the stars out of his eyes, swallowing the taste of iron.

His jaw was grabbed again and tilted to the side. “Ah, I see what you’ve done. A filter. I see you caught on after all. No matter.” Mysterio grabbed it, crushing a section between his fingers and ripping it away.

“Use the second vial, I think it’s time we test it out,” Mysterio ordered the guards, taking a few steps back.

Miles desperately tried to wrench himself free, straining harder as his spider-sense grew more and more insistent. He knew he was about to get tortured all over again! He didn’t need the terrifying reminder!

The smell of bug spray confirmed his worst fears. The world began to tilt, growing an otherworldly feeling, even as his spider-sense’s screaming pressure made him want to drill a hole in his skull.

He couldn’t battle the chains any longer. He lost his footing and crashed to the ground, barely able to shift so his shoulders took the majority of the blow. His throat ached, and it took him a moment to realize it was from his own screaming.

There was a crash, and shouts of alarm followed. A gun went off, the bullet embedding itself in front of Miles. As the smoke cleared, his spider-sense slowly easing, all that he could see from his tilted angle were red boots.

Red boots made quick work of the guards. Mysterio made a disgruntled, frustrated sound before turning tail and running out the now-open back door. Miles made an aborted effort to try and wrench his arm out and web Mysterio to the floor but failed miserably.

The room went blissfully quiet, with only the occasional groan letting him know the guards weren’t dead. A few moments later and the chains around him finally retracted.

Miles quickly ripped them off, scrambling to his feet. His nerves on edge, he could hardly stop himself from flickering between visible and invisible. His chest heaved and he struggled to stay upright with black dots swimming across his vision. “Thank… you…” he gasped out, finally looking at his rescuer.

Daredevil. Shit.

He forced himself to straighten up as Daredevil approached him. “What happened here?” He demanded.

“It was- was a trap,” Miles explained, blinking the last of the dots out of his vision. “I got a tip-off, and it led here, but they were expecting me.”

Daredevil gritted his teeth, “Who were they working for?”

“I don’t know,” Miles reluctantly answered. “Probably the same people who, uh, who kidnapped me.”

Daredevil looked him over critically. Miles couldn’t help the feeling that he had failed the assessment. “You’re okay?”

Miles shrugged, “As good as I can be.”

His eyes seemed to narrow on him, “Go home. You clearly don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Wha- that’s not fair!” Miles yelled, outraged. “I would have escaped on my own! He just- he’s hacked my spider-sense or something.”

“This is the second time I’ve had to rescue you because you got in over your head. You’re not ready to face these threats.” Daredevil said, voice cold and unsympathetic.

Except I have no choice in the threats I face, he internally raged. It wasn’t my fault that Owl decided to kidnap me, or that they discovered my identity. It wasn’t my choice to be blackmailed into an alliance with Fisk.

I can’t stop now.

“I can’t just look the other way when people are in danger,” he bit out, knowing it was only half the story.

Daredevil seemed to know that too. He stepped into Miles’s space, looking down at him like he was a small child. “Go. Home.”

Curled up on the couch, comfy pajamas on, it was easy to relax and forget about everything that was happening. Lightly dozing in the corner spot, the background noise of the TV was the perfect white noise.

Until, abruptly, it wasn’t.

"Breaking news!” the TV journalist chirped, “Reporting from Times Square we have a man climbing a building. Let’s turn to our reporter, Sam, on the scene.”

Miles blearily opened his eyes. “Thanks, Jen. As you can see there’s a guy climbing onto the billboard behind the Red Steps here in Time Square. He appears to be wearing some sort of fur coat and- hang on- he’s started speaking.”

“-New York!” the guy shouted, his voice loud enough to be heard even from a distance. “I, Kravinoff, have a challenge for the protector of the city, Spider-Man!”

Miles sat up straighter, all thoughts of sleep disappearing in a snap. “I am the mightiest hunter in the world! And I will prove it! In forty-eight hours the hunt will begin in this very spot!”

The cameraman slowly zoomed in on Kravinoff, enough for Miles to see that he had yellow, cat-like eyes. “If you win, New York is all yours. If I win, I hang your head on my wall.”

Kravinoff’s eyes spotted the camera, and for a moment it felt like he was speaking directly to Miles as he continued. “If you refuse to participate, I will reveal your secret identity to the entire world before I hunt down your family and friends instead.”

No!

Kravinoff took something off of his belt and threw it down, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

The news continued on, but all he could hear was the sound of his heart in his ears racing like a rabbit’s. He couldn’t breathe, every breath felt like he was straining against a truck.

Already he had Owl coming after him, wanting to use him again. Wanting to use his body. To hollow him out until he was a husk. Already he was having to work with Fisk, the man who killed his predecessor in cold blood, the mob boss of the city.

But now? Now another one? Wasn’t he facing enough?

“Miles?” He heard distantly but he was curling in on himself, hunched over and desperate to take a full breath. He could feel his hands flickering into invisibility, following his desire to hide.

How was he supposed to face another one? He couldn’t face another one. He didn’t even know who this guy was and he was already threatening his whole life. He couldn’t assume it was a bluff. He couldn’t. If Fisk knew, there was every chance this Kravinoff guy did too.

All because he had swung into a cloud of fog. All because he had stupidly assumed it was innocuous. All of this because he had powers he hadn’t even asked for and now bore the brunt of responsibility for.

A hand touched his back and he flinched away, electricity dancing up his arm as his venom strike prepared to protect himself in his vulnerable state.

“Miles. Mijo. Breathe.” It was his Mamá. He desperately tried to take a breath but it was like his chest had caved in. Was he dying? He was going to pass out. He couldn’t pass out, not when he had to protect them.

“Breathe with me,” his Dad was crouched in front of him, carefully not touching him. He took an exaggerated breath in, and Miles tried desperately to follow suit.

Slowly, slowly the dots at the edge of his vision faded away. Slowly he was able to take a breath in without feeling like his chest was caving in. Tentatively his Dad put a hand on his knee, finally safe to touch him again without getting hurt.

He sniffled pathetically, using the back of his wrist to wipe away stray tears.

His Dad seemed to hesitate, before quietly saying, “You’re Spider-Man, aren’t you?”

Too exhausted to be any more afraid, all Miles could do was numbly nod.

Mamá, who had been sitting next to him, whispered quietly, “Oh, Miles…” She wrapped a hand around him, softly encouraging him to lean against her chest like he was five again. His chin quivered and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wrenched their way out of him.

“I’m s- s-sorry,” he hiccuped out between sobs. She only wrapped her hands around him even tighter.

“I’m so proud of you,” his Dad said softly. When Miles managed to blink some tears out of his eyes and look at his Dad’s face, he knew he wasn’t lying.

Sandwiched between them, the dam finally broke. He let himself wail, crying over everything that had happened. All the torture he had endured, the stress, the looks, the pain… Exhausted, he couldn’t fight the sleep that quickly enveloped him.

Jefferson watched as Rio softly stroked Miles’s hair, the hair that had grown thicker without a haircut in months. His breathing had finally evened out, but even in sleep, he looked exhausted. The lines under his eyes were dark, and his face was still tensed up.

“When did you figure it out?” Rio asked, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Jefferson took a moment to answer, watching the rise and fall of Miles’s chest. “About a week after he came back from the hospital,” he finally said. “Spider-Man hadn’t been seen since before Miles disappeared, the precinct had been talking about it. As much as some of them complain… when he would show up to a scene you at least knew you would get home without being injured that day.”

He took a deep breath. “I… looked into his room when he was sleeping, just to check on him, y’know, and a flicker of light went down his arm. His fingers went kind of… invisible while having breakfast a few days later. And all the kids at that… facility tended to only have one enhancement. Except one. It wasn’t hard to piece things together after that.”

Rio gently took Miles’s hand, extending his left hand into the light. It was wrapped in a layer of cotton bandages that were falling apart.

Taking the cue, he loosened it up the rest of the way and took it off. Sure enough, there was a healing wound between his middle and ring finger that was so straight it looked like a surgeon had cut into it. Flipping it over, the wound was replicated on the reverse side.

Pulling the sleeve of his shirt down, the raised lines of another scar extended across his wrist. Miles had been cagey about his body, covering it up as much as he could, since coming back home. It was easier to not think about what he had been through with no real signs of it. This scar had signs of stitches, but they were sloppy and uneven. Like the person putting them in hadn’t cared enough to take their time.

Jefferson gently pulled the sleeve back into place and put the hand back where it was before. Even though he hadn’t needed any more confirmation, it solidified it.

“What do we do now?” Rio finally asked.

“... Miles wouldn’t be so scared if he thought Kravinoff was lying. We don’t have his abilities. I have my gun but it might not be enough. Especially now that I’m injured.” He gestured towards the crutches leaning against the back of the couch.

“We can’t just let him go and get himself killed,” Rio pleaded.

“You and I have both seen him in battle. He’s… capable.” Jefferson admitted reluctantly.

Rio pressed her forehead against Miles’s. “We can’t let him.”

“We might not have a choice. He’s fifteen. He’s not going to stand idly by.” He hesitated. “It’s not just him we have to think about either. There’s a fourth person we have to think about here.”

Light streamed through a gap in the curtain, falling onto his face and slowly waking him up. Resisting the urge to turn over and fall back asleep, he slowly sat up, being careful not to agitate his left hand.

He was still on the couch in the living room, though there were two blankets tucked neatly in around him and the pillow from his bedroom for his head. He slowly eased himself up, propping the pillow up.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, yawning. When he was finally awake enough, his eyes strayed to the coffee table and found a glass of water waiting for him. He picked it up and downed it all as he realized how parched he was.

He leaned back, the empty cup still in hand, and sighed. He knew he would have to talk to Mamá and Dad about him being Spider-Man, but in this quiet moment before he had to face them, it was nice to just bask in the sunshine.

He detangled himself from his cocoon of blankets, put the glass on the coffee table and wandered in. Both of them were sitting at the small dining table with bowls of cereal.

Forgoing making his own bowl for now, he pulled out his own chair and sat down with them. “Hey,” he began tentatively.

They shared a look that he couldn’t hope to interpret. “Are… are you in any pain?” Mamá asked, gesturing to his hand.

He went to fold his hand and hide it from view before realizing how useless that would be. He put it down on the table instead, noticing with a start the professional wrapping that had been done. Of course his Mamá, the nurse, would fix it up.

“Uh, no, no it’s fine. It’s all good. I don’t need any medicine. They wouldn’t really work all that well on me anyway,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand. “A, uh, downside of these… powers.”

“When did you get them?” Dad asks, leaning forward. He definitely wasn’t getting out of this interrogation, but he didn’t dread it half as much as he had with Detective Smith.

Haltingly, he began telling them about his journey of getting bitten, meeting the Spider-Man of their world, meeting the Spider-people of the other dimensions, defeating Fisk, and the minor skirmishes in the months from then until before he was kidnapped.

“I, um, swung into a cloud of smoke on one of my patrols,” he continued, unable to meet their eyes. “When I woke up I was in the facility. I figured out pretty quickly that they were… experimenting on me. I didn’t want to let them, so I stopped eating all the food.”

He blinked away the memories of literally starving to death, the force-feedings, the agony and pain. They didn’t have to know every detail.

“It was mostly just… boring,” he explained, giving them a half-hearted smile. He cleared his throat before going on. “I attempted to escape once but that went, uh, badly. Eventually, I got my chance when Daredevil broke in.”

Mamá laced her fingers with his good hand, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s been going on since. There’s some sort of organization, OWL, they were the ones experimenting on all of us. As far as I can tell, they’re transplanting the powers into their own men. Probably to take down Fisk.”

He finally looked them in the eyes, knowing he had to get across how serious this was. “I don’t know who Kravinoff is, I don’t know if he really knows who I am. But Fisk and OWL do know who I am, and there’s every chance someone like him has gotten access to it too. The guy wearing the skeleton mask who stabbed me - I don’t know who he is - but he works for OWL.”

“Taskmaster,” Dad finally spoke up. “He’s an international assassin.”

Miles just sighed, “Yeah, makes sense. He’s the reason you got shot in the foot. OWL doesn’t want me to be Spider-Man anymore, but I know they’re still hurting people. I just… I can’t not do something when I know there are people being hurt like I was.”

There it was again - they shared that look between themselves.

“We figured as much,” his dad said. He sat up straighter. “We’ve called you out sick for the next few days.”

Stunned, Miles struggled to form any words for an excruciating few seconds. “You-you’re going to let me be Spider-Man?”

Mamá gave him a piercing look. “No diría que estamos ‘letting’ you,” she clarified, then her eyes softened. “Could we really stop you?.”

He huffed a small laugh, looking down at his lap. “You’re not wrong.” He took a deep breath, looking back up at them. “I’m sorry for all the lies. I-”

His phone started ringing in the other room, obnoxiously singing the Spider-Man theme song from a TV show they had made a few years ago. His face flushed with heat. “I’ll go grab that.”

Hurrying into the other room, he answered the call. “Hi, Mrs. Parker.”

“I saw the news.” She cut right to the chase as always. “I’ve got a few upgrades for you if you swing by.”

He glanced into the other room. “That sounds great. Um, is it okay if I bring my- my parents around? I also need a new webshooter.”

From the pause that followed, he knew she was surprised. “Sure.”

“Great. I’ll see you soon.”

He ended the call and went to stand in the doorway. They looked at him expectantly. “That was Mrs. Parker, the previous Spider-Man’s aunt. I think you guys should meet her.”

“You’ve been meeting with her?” Dad asked.

He shrugged, eyes darting to the floor, “She’s got all the good tech. She helps me.”

Hesitantly, they both agreed to go and meet her. But not before he finished his breakfast.

On the way out of the house, movement caught Miles’s eye. On the outside of the window, he spotted some sand in a small pile. As quickly as he had seen it, it blew away in the wind. For a moment, he wondered where the sand had come from, but when his dad called him outside he quickly dismissed it.

Mamá didn’t have a driver’s license, so they ordered a cab to get there.

The times he had come over to Mrs. Parker’s house, it had been as Spider-Man, jumping between houses. To drive through the neighborhood, the route more indirect than if he had been webbing along, was different.

As soon as they had been dropped off, Mrs. Parker opened the door to let them in. With quick introductions made, she beckoned them to follow her into the backyard.

When they approached the shed, Miles couldn’t help but look back to watch his parents’ reactions as the grungy-looking shed suddenly opened a high-tech door to reveal an elevator. Their open-mouthed looks of shock were as funny as he expected.

The elevator quickly descended and when it hit the bottom he and Mrs. Parker quickly walked over to where all the high-tech stuff happened. There was a suit waiting for him, on the lab table. It had a new design, all black with red along the sides and a cleaner Spider-Man logo.

Before he was… captured, Mrs. Parker had left him with the task of designing a new Spider-Man suit, adamantly refusing to let him spray paint on a Spider-Man suit again. Sure enough, the one he had eventually settled on was the one waiting for him.

“This is one of my best designs yet,” she explained, picking up one of the arms. “The fabric is stronger but won’t restrict you in any way. I’ve added some extra bullet-proofing fabric across your chest but wasn’t able to add any more without you losing mobility.”

She picked up the mask, turning it inside out. “As we were talking about before you were kidnapped,” Miles’s fingers twitched at how casually she breezed past the topic, “I’ve managed to add a small supply of oxygen into your mask. It won’t last long, but it’ll give you an extra few seconds.”

She picked up the new webshooter he had asked for, quickly picking out one of the web cartridges and presented it to him. “This cartridge contains an extra strong version of your webbing. Use it sparingly, even you can’t break out of it for at least half an hour.”

He nodded, glad that it was a different hue of red from his other cartridges so he wouldn’t use it by accident. He put it back into the web shooter slot.

“I’ll be glad for that oxygen,” he admitted, before briefly describing the guy in the warehouse and how his filter had worked for a bit before the guy broke it again.

Mrs. Parker sighed, “That sounds like Mysterio alright. He’s more of a chemist than anything else… I’m surprised he’s gotten his formula so advanced. Before you ask, however, Kravinoff is new. I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“Oh, I was hoping you could. I might look at what you have on Mysterio later, if that’s okay?” he politely asked.

“Of course. Now,” she turned a more piercing look on him, “How likely is it that Kravinoff truly knows who you are?”

He glanced over at his parents, who were admiring the previous Spider-Man’s suits. “Pretty likely,” he regretfully admitted. He explained how Fisk knew, leaving out the protection agreement, and how he was already on ‘Strike Two’ with Taskmaster.

Mrs. Parker hummed, deep in thought. “That’s not good. Peter kept his identity under wraps until he passed… I’ll invite them to stay here for the next few days. If the likes of Fisk knows who they are, then he’ll only use that against you. They’ll be safest here in the bunker.”

Miles’s shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in ages. He hadn’t seen any signs of Fisk holding up his end of the bargain, and he hadn’t had any more communication with him since the meeting. At least with Mrs. Parker they would be marginally safer. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Mrs. Parker said, leaving him with the new Spider-Man suit.

He picked up the mask, gently flipping it the right way in. He stared at the mesh of the eyes longer than he cared to admit. 

Miles was grateful that he was given the couch to sleep on instead of Peter’s old room - now Mrs. Parker’s spare room. Something about that made his skin crawl.

Maybe it was that he would be sleeping in a dead guy’s bed. Maybe it was because if he thought about his predecessor for too long he would feel small and incompetent in comparison. Maybe it was because it made him feel like the ghost of Peter was watching him, as illogical as that was.

Even avoiding that can of worms by sleeping on the couch, it wasn’t any easier to fall asleep. Thoughts swirled through his head about everything that was happening, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t settle enough to fall asleep. He tossed, he turned, he adjusted his blankets, he counted sheep, but no matter what he did it didn’t help.

He gave up, eventually. Getting up, he approached the window and gently parted the curtains. The quiet street, only lit up occasionally by street lights, was calming in a strange sort of way.

His phone lit up with a notification and he looked down at it.

Miles hesitated for a moment. He could just ignore it, but the deep shame over the fight quickly began to eat away at him. He sat down on the couch and, taking a deep breath, called him.

“Miles?” Ganke’s voice was as disbelieving as it was desperate.

“Hey Ganke.” He leaned back and curled his knees up to his chest. ”I’m sorry for being such an asshole.”

Clearly not the conversation Ganke was expecting, he heard a choked-out “Oh.”

Despite himself, Miles huffed out a laugh. Something about how late it was, how tired he was and the soft moonlight illuminating the room loosened the locks around his secrets. “I know I probably need… help. But just… not yet.”

“Yeah, yeah I understand. I’m glad you’re even thinking about it. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too,” Ganke replied in a small voice.

“Thanks.”

There was a pause. “Are you going to face that Kravinoff guy tomorrow?”

Miles looked over to the window again, then his eyes flickered over to a family portrait of the Parker family. “I don’t know. I kind of have to. And it’s just… it’s strange having time before the fight. Normally there's no real time to prepare.”

He hummed in agreement. “Yeah, you normally get the information and are already out there fighting. Look, it’s late, you should probably go to bed, Miles. I didn’t expect you to even answer me.”

“Yeah, I know.” He yawned. “Yeah, I think I should be able to sleep now.”

“Good luck. Keep yourself safe.”

“I’ll try,” he promised.

Miles impulsively adjusted the suit again, twisting around once again to make sure he looked ok in the mirror. He knew he was just killing time before he had to go to Times Square, but he felt too on edge to do anything else.

He could hear the TV playing in the background, the coverage occasionally switching over to updates on the preparations being made by the police. Barriers had been set up, areas cordoned off, and for once, Times Square wouldn’t be filled to the brim with people.

Even knowing that the public was going to mostly be kept out of the battle didn’t kill his nerves any.

Giving in, he went out into the lounge room. Mamá looked up from his backpack. She had been packing it full of supplies for the last hour. He knew it was her way of reassuring herself, helpless to help him in any other way.

Mrs. Parker came in through the kitchen and handed him an extra web cartridge. He quickly put it in his webshooter. It was reassuring to have a full arsenal of web cartridges for once. “Kick his ass,” she said with a smile, squeezing his shoulder before letting him go. He nodded.

He came around the couch and Mamá and Dad got up. They wrapped him in a hug. The hug stretched on, all of them reluctant to let go.

“Stay safe,” his Dad whispered, finally letting go and putting his hand on his masked head.

Mamá held out the backpack to him, which he grabbed and slung onto his back. “Come home safe, mijo,” she pleaded.

He glanced over to Mrs. Parker, “I’ll look after them,” she reassured.

Taking a deep breath in, he met each of their eyes in turn. “I’ll come home again, I promise.”

Chapter Text

Miles deposited his backpack of supplies on a Manhattan rooftop a few blocks away, webbing it to a vent. As he looked back at it, one foot stepping up onto the railing and preparing to swing away, some gut feeling told him it would be a while before he came back for it.

Nerves. It was just nerves, he tried to tell himself. Cracking his neck side to side, he stepped off the edge and swung towards his destination. He enjoyed the afternoon sun that warmed his body, letting himself swing just that little bit slower on the way.

When he got into Times Square, he quickly found the designated spot. Barricades had been set up from the Red Steps to 46th Street with police officers standing intermittently along the barriers to keep the growing crowd of people at bay.

A few people spotted him, excitedly pointing, and a cheer went up. His cheeks warmed and he was grateful for the mask that kept his expression hidden. He really didn’t want a crowd, but the chance to meet the surviving spider-themed hero had enticed many.

That was the point, he supposed. Draw him out of his element and make him face a villain in a public setting.

He dropped down to the ground in a roll, springing up to his feet in the same movement. He looked around for a moment, trying to decide what to do while he waited for Kravinoff. Then he spotted a familiar police officer - the one he had hauled out of the way of the car.

“Uh, hi,” he started, casually approaching him.

“Spider-Man,” he greeted, tipping his hat at him.

Miles gestured broadly to the scene. “I wasn’t expecting this. Look, I’m sorry for all this, really, I would rather it be anywhere else.”

The officer only gave him an amused smile. “You’re fine. Normally we have to set up barricades in a rush, this is a nice change of pace.”

“Right, yep.” He couldn’t stop himself from wringing his fingers together. “Just, you know, thank you.”

“Anytime. Good luck, Spider-Man.”

He began to turn around to go to a better spot when he heard a “Spider-Man! Spider-Man! How true are the rumors that you were involved in the facility full of super-powered children! Spider-Man!”

He took a deep breath, looking up to see an obnoxiously big camera on the shoulder of a bulky man and a petite journalist with a microphone in her hand leaning over the barrier. Was it a good idea to talk to them? Probably not. Did he have to at least get his own story out there? Yes.

Reluctantly he approached the barrier. “I have been involved in trying to take them down, yeah,” he evasively answered.

“And is this fight linked to that?” she asked, pushing the microphone closer to his face.

He shrugged. “At this stage, I don’t know. I had never even heard of him before Sunday.”

“Does he really know your secret identity?”

He couldn’t help but nervously rub the back of his neck. “He might. I hope he doesn’t. Um, anyway, I’m going to go. Please keep well away from the fight!” He unceremoniously turned and walked away, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes, if not thousands, watching him go.

He kept an even pace, despite wanting to jog out some of his nerves. Instead, he climbed up to the top of the Red Stairs and sat on top of the railings.

Swinging his legs back and forth, he kept an eye on the crowd that excitedly waited for the fight. He felt like a wrestler in a WWE show, surrounded by adoring fans that were ready for a good match. Except he was an unwilling participant.

He didn’t have to wait too much longer before Kravinoff jumped down from one of the buildings. He wore a jacket with a lion pattern on it, the mane represented in the fluffy collar. Shiny metal guards on his wrists glinted in the dying sunlight, reminding him of a cheap knock-off Wonder Woman toy.

“So the contender turned up!” he greeted loudly, gesturing towards him.

Miles couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, Kravinoff, you literally threatened my family.”

Kravinoff cracked a toothy, confident grin. “I had always wanted to face your predecessor, Peter Parker, but now, now I get to face you, Miles Morales.”

It felt like the world tilted under him, mercilessly dropping him into his worst fear.

His name had been uttered to a crowd - to a recording, filming crowd. Does he deny it? Does he refuse to acknowledge it? He didn’t know what to do - and that was the point. He knew immediately that Kravinoff had broken the agreement just to garner another advantage.

“I- I don’t know who that is,” he tried to deny. The eyes of New York were bearing down on him, and he was buckling. “Besides!” He tried to recover, straightening his back. “The deal was that if I turned up, you wouldn’t reveal my secret identity! Why did you throw that random kid under the bus like that?”

Kravinoff’s grin widened. “We shall see. It won’t matter in the end - your head will still be displayed on my wall.”

“You’re insane,” is the only thing he could think to say, too out of his element to even be angry.

Superhumanly fast, Kravinoff darted across the gap between them, going for his throat. Miles jumped out of the way, diving off the Red Steps and landing with a roll. 

Okay, head in the game. He needed to take Kravinoff down as fast as possible and prevent as much damage as he could. Simple, right?

Kravinoff vaulted over the railing, pulling a knife from his belt. He could see his reflection in it, and somehow he felt even smaller looking at it. “Look, can’t we just discuss this over coffee like civilized adults?” Miles tried, backing away and moving closer to the middle of the clearing.

Kravinoff darted towards him, going for his head. Miles ducked down, webbing his foot at the same moment. It only slowed him down, as the knife slashed through the bindings. New goal: get rid of that knife.

He thwipped a web, grabbing the blade by its edge. He yanked, and quickly realized his mistake. Kravinoff grabbed the web with his other hand, twisting it around his arm and pulled Miles off balance and towards him.

He ducked beneath the blade that was aimed at his face - but still got a nasty slash to the forehead. Arching his back, planting his hands on the ground, he kicked up as hard as he could. It earned him a solid ‘crack’ as he got Kravinoff in the chin.

Flipping back to a safe distance, he crouched low and felt at his forehead. Warm blood trickled from the cut and down to the lens of an eye. He wiped it away. Glancing up to check on Kravinoff, Miles barely suppressed his frustration that he barely looked fazed by the brief skirmish. He was rubbing at his jaw, though.

Miles couldn’t help but look over at the gathered crowd. So many phones, so many cameras obscuring their faces, and a wave of irrational anger swept through him. All he seemed to be was entertainment these days.

“What is this really?” he demanded, hands curling into fists. “Because I don’t believe you. You can’t seriously want all this just for my head.”

Kravinoff adjusted his grip on the knife, a flicker of something in his eyes. A shrill alarm went off, distracting Miles in his brief search for the sound. The moment of inattention was all Kravinoff needed.

From one moment to the next, he grabbed Miles by the throat, but instead of squeezing or stabbing him, he threw him across the clearing and into a nearby shop. He crashed through the glass, rolling uncontrollably before slamming into some shelving.

Plush toys fell onto him as he anchored himself on one elbow. He didn’t have time to assess his body before Kravinoff was coming at him. He rolled onto his back just as Kravinoff stabbed the knife down, barely avoiding it. He rolled out of the way of the next stab, grabbing Kravinoff’s wrist and pulling him down.

Kravinoff stumbled and Miles grabbed the knife's handle, trying to wrench it out of his hand, but he recovered quicker than anticipated.

Using Miles’s momentum against him, he aimed the knife’s tip downwards and let Miles pull it towards himself. The knife embedded itself in his right shoulder and was pushed further in when Kravinoff planted his knee into Miles’s stomach.

He gasped out as the air was driven out of him, then clenched his teeth as the burning pain swept through him.

“You’re correct, Miles,” Kravinoff gloated, finally answering his question. “I don’t need your head. That’s only a bonus. I’m a distraction.”

He heard three gunshots echo through the square, followed by terrified screaming. Miles didn’t dare look away from Kravinoff. “For who?”

“OWL.”

Miles let go of the hilt with one hand, instead grabbing Kravinoff’s wrist and venom striking him. His whole body tensed and Miles used the moment of weakness to grab him by his jacket. Pulling him off balance, he got a leg up and kicked him squarely in the stomach. Kravinoff sailed across the room, crashing into the wall.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbed the knife with his left hand and choked through a scream as he ripped it out of himself. He broke the hilt off quickly before bending the metal and throwing both pieces deeper into the store, rendering it unusable.

It was all he had time for before Kravinoff was in his face again and he was forced to block punch after punch. Each block jarred him and sent agonizing pain through his shoulder. It culminated in a punch to the jaw that Miles was too slow to avoid.

He hit the ground as more gunshots sounded nearby. He didn’t let himself recover. With screaming muscles, he got his hands on the ground behind his head and pushed himself off the ground and onto his feet.

Blinking stars out of his eyes, he knew he had to finish this.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stepped into his next move and punched Kravinoff in the stomach. The punch was so strong that he sailed across the room and crashed into the next-door jewelry store. 

He jumped in after Kravinoff, webbing his arms and legs to the floor before he could get up. He stood above his foe, who wriggled but couldn’t escape, and knew he had won the fight. It didn’t feel very satisfying.

Keeping a wary eye on Kravinoff, he looked into one of the mirrors in the jewelry store and webbed the wound on his forehead, then his shoulder. He gave himself a once over, growing even more grateful for the new and improved Spider-Man suit as he realized how much it had protected him. There was no glass embedded in him, having sliced the outermost layer of the suit but no deeper. One less wound to worry about. 

Assured that he was okay, he walked over to Kravinoff and grabbed him by the legs. He ripped him out of the temporary webbing before rapidly wrapping him in a thick layer until he was just a wriggling, protesting cocoon. He grabbed him by the back of his jacket and began lugging him outside.

Outside was carnage. The crowd was gone - including the police. The barriers had been knocked to the ground, complemented by scattered items left behind in the carnage. He couldn’t see anyone with guns, but he could hear gunfire in the distance.

“What’s happening?” Miles demanded, his grip on Kravinoff’s jacket tightening.

Kravinoff laughed, looking at him like he was an idiot. “Isn’t it obvious? Owl is becoming the new Kingpin of New York! He knew you would try to stop him and paid me big money to try and kill you, or, at least slow you down.”

Miles dropped his hold on him, letting him unceremoniously fall to the ground. He stood over him, hands clenched into fists. “How do I stop this?”

“You can’t! It’s too late. Owl will be the new kingpin by morning.”

His eyes darted around the square as he tried to think of a plan. How could he stop an all-out gang war? He wasn’t a one-man army. The best he could do was cut the problem off at the head. “What’s his address?” he demanded, grabbing Kraven by the collar and raising a fist.

Kraven grinned, all teeth, not scared in the slightest. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, an instinctive sense of dread falling over him as he got the address without a fight. It couldn’t be this easy.

He slung Kravinoff over his shoulder and marched them to the police station a few hundred feet away. He dropped him at the entrance, securing him with another layer of webbing, before turning his back to go to his next fight.

“Good luck little spider,” Kravinoff taunted. Miles paused, stopping to look back at Kravinoff. The enemy that had revealed his identity to the world for no real reason, except to distract him. It hadn’t been revealed by dying, like Peter, but because months ago he had messed up on a patrol and been kidnapped. 

He took a deep breath, knowing nothing he could say would be adequate to summarize the myriad of emotions welling inside of him. But his identity didn’t matter right now. What mattered was stopping Owl.

He webbed away without looking back again, making a beeline for Owl’s address.

Only a block away from the fight a shadow fell over him and his spider-sense practically yelled for him to get out of the way. He let go of the web he was swinging with and let himself fall rapidly, using his next web to grab onto a light pole and land on it.

He didn’t have a moment to figure out what was going on when the light pole gave way under his feet. He fell to the ground, rolling to absorb the shock, and turned around to face the new threat.

Wrapped in brown body armor with owl eyes on the front, he found himself facing a man and a woman whose eyes were completely black. The woman, still in the air, had angel-like wings that distinctly reminded him of Amy’s. He looked over at the man and didn’t have to wonder for long what his power was when he opened his mouth and spat a liquid at him. He dodged out of the way, watching in astonishment as the man’s spit dissolved part of the sidewalk.

Miles thwipped a web at the woman’s wings, grabbing one of them and yanking her out of the sky. She screeched in astonishment, landing in an undignified heap. He narrowly sidestepped the man’s acid spit, before he lunged forward and punched him in the jaw.

He webbed his mouth shut before webbing his arms to his side. 

The winged lady had recovered, but not quick enough. He again attached a web to one of her wings and ran around her, trapping her in her own wings. Unable to fight, he simply shoved her onto the sidewalk and webbed her down.

He did the same to her companion.

Without their weapons, they seemed to entirely give up, heads lolling to the side. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They were probably victims like him, dragged into a fight that wasn’t their own.

More determined than ever, he took a running start and continued swinging to the real enemy. He didn’t let himself stop for other fights he saw along the way despite the guilt that caused, knowing the quickest way to end this was to get to the source.

He quickly got to the skyscraper in question. Landing on the neighboring building - which was two stories higher than Owl’s - he found the man in question easily. Just like Fisk, he had obnoxiously chosen to have an open-plan, floor-to-ceiling windows, penthouse office and was leisurely leaning back in his plush throne like he was already the kingpin. Owl wasn’t alone though: he could vaguely see the shape of someone else obscured in the shadows. Their head was an odd shape, too large and rounded. Mysterio, probably.

He took a few steps back, shaking his hands out to try and get rid of his nerves, before taking a running start and jumping. Hands crossed in front of his face to protect himself, he crashed through the window and landed with a roll. 

The room rapidly began to fill up with smoke, and he knew exactly what Owl was trying to do. He was sick and tired of them trying to capture him and use him. He had had enough.

He lunged at Owl but was snapped back when something wrapped around his chest and yanked him back to the floor. Miles grabbed the chain with both hands and snapped it in half, yanking one half out of the ground and whipping it at Mysterio.

Mysterio ducked, letting out a yelp of surprise. Miles thwipped a web at his legs and pulled them out from under him. He heard the already-dented fishbowl crack and Mysterio began to frantically yell for the smoke to be turned off, voice slurring as he fell unconscious under its effects.

Chest heaving, Miles turned towards Owl. Owl, the man who had tortured him. Who had tried to take his powers for his own gain. Who was experimenting on anybody he could get his hands on, including children. Who had sent someone to shoot his Dad in the foot to try and stop Miles from tracking him down.

The man who had a gas mask on and hadn’t even left his chair to face him.

He let out a guttural snarl. This wasn’t just about New York. This was justice. This was revenge.

“Hello, Miles Morales.” Owl finally stood up, clawed fingers tapping obnoxiously on the wooden desk. His voice was muffled by the mask. “You have been a thorn in my side.”

“Good,” he snarled, and lunged at him again. Miles vaulted over the desk, sliding under Owl’s attempted swipe, and kicked him so hard he went stumbling back. He didn’t fall out the window, much to Miles’s disappointment.

Instead, he managed to catch Miles by surprise, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him into the air. Miles clawed at the hand, trying to wedge the fingers open to little effect. “You’ve been absolutely useless to me!” Owl raged. “All these months of wasting resources on you when we can’t even use you for anything! Your DNA is complete junk! It doesn’t make sense!”

Miles, rapidly losing air, lit up in a fantastic light show. Owl yelped and threw him across the room and into the wall.

He was quick to recover, leveraging the wall to help get to his feet, taking rapid gulps of air in. “You… should have never… come after me,” he snarled between breaths.

Owl picked up his desk, everything on it clattering to the floor. “You’re ruining my plans!”

He narrowly jumped out of the way of the desk that smashed through the wall. “You gave me hell!” he yelled back.

His spider-sense warned him just in time for him to side-step a knife that embedded itself in the wall. Before he even glanced back, he knew who it was.

Twisting out of the way of another, he grabbed a cartridge of extra-strong webbing. He cracked the top and threw it at Taskmaster. There was no time to fiddle with swapping cartridges.

The pressurized cartridge exploded upon impact with Taskmaster, the webs shooting out everywhere and thoroughly cocooning him.

In that short span of time, Owl was upon him. He slammed Miles into the ground so hard the floor cracked, driving the last of the air out of his lungs. He heard something in his chest ominously snap .

“You set back my timeline by a month,” Owl hissed next to his head. “A month!”

Miles clenched his teeth and webbed Owl in the face. Owl stumbled off of him, tearing it away. He tried to clamber to his feet, but Owl had torn the webbing off quicker than expected. Piercing pain zapped through his left thigh as Owl lifted him into the air by it, digging his claws into his muscles.

“Just DIE!” Owl raged, and then he was sailing through the air. The night sky greeted him for a brief moment before he was crashing through glass and sliding across tiled floors.

Miles, dazed, struggled to open his eyes. It was made worse by his reopened forehead wound soaking his mask with blood. The blood leaked under his lenses, effectively blinding him. He rolled onto his back, tearing his mask off. Wheezing with every breath, he struggled to figure out if it was because of a broken rib puncturing his lungs or from the bruising around his neck.

Even when he wiped the warm blood out of his eyes, he still couldn’t see around himself. Giving up on surveying his surroundings, he tried to roll onto his side and propped an arm but quickly gave up when his whole body seized with agony. Whining like a kicked dog, he was forced to lie in place and assess his body.

Slowly he began to distinguish the wounds from each other. His thigh had multiple puncture wounds. His rib was bruised, if not cracked. His throat was bruised. His forehead was slashed and bleeding. His shoulder was stabbed and throbbing angrily.

All of this was survivable. All of it was just pain and sore muscles from fighting and swinging for hours straight.

“C’mon, Spider-Man,” he hissed, reaching out beside him and finding a wall to assist him. He attached his fingers to it and forced himself to sit up.

He rested his head against the wall, finally taking in his surroundings. He was in an office kitchen. Against all odds his stomach decided that now was the time to make itself aware, grumbling at him.

He huffed a laugh, wincing as the movement caused him more pain. 

One hand wrapped loosely around his chest, he whispered, “One… two... three,” and forced himself to stand, whimpering in pain. He blinked through the dots in his eyes, catching himself against the wall before he could slump down again.

From his new perspective, he spotted a fruit bowl next to the office fridge. Somehow, he didn’t think they would mind a few pieces of missing fruit. They probably would mind the blood puddled on the floor and handprints on the wall making it look like someone had been murdered here.

He gingerly took a step forward, then another, limping through the pain. He grabbed a banana and with shaky fingers unpeeled it. Biting into it was like heaven. He devoured it in a few quick bites before reaching for another one. He consumed three pieces of fruit mercilessly before finally feeling full.

He shifted through the cupboards until he found a glass and filled it with tap water, downing it quickly. One thing was sorted, at least, now for everything else.

He grabbed some paper towels and gingerly pressed them to his forehead, putting pressure on it before grabbing some fresh ones when the first lot soaked through. After a few frustrating rounds of that, it finally scabbed over enough that he could move on.

Leaning over the sink, wincing through the pain of doing so, he washed the blood off of his face. Bending down, he picked up his mask and took his gloves off. He washed all of them thoroughly, wringing them out. He was grateful for the darkness of night, leaving him blissfully unaware of how much blood there was. He left them to the side to dry.

Miles grabbed some more paper towels and hastily cleaned each of his wounds before webbing over them. He didn’t have anything life-threatening, nothing that meant he couldn’t go for another round, and for that he was grateful.

He searched around the empty office for a minute, looking for and finding a spare piece of paper and pen. He scribbled out a brief thank you note and left it by the half-empty fruit bowl.

Miles reached for his clean mask and gloves, pausing for a moment as the healed scars from the facility caught his eye. In a straight, clean line they stood out from the rest of the scars he had accumulated being Spider-Man. He hadn’t let himself look at them, or think about them, in all this time. Hadn’t let himself think about why they had made the incisions in the first place.

They had probably been searching for the source of his webs, lacking the knowledge that he didn’t produce them like an actual spider. He just borrowed the late Peter’s recipe. They didn’t understand his powers.

He swallowed and finally put his gloves back on, covering them back up. If they had enough time, they would eventually figure them out. His and any other superpowered kids they had kidnapped. He had to prevent that.

Miles pulled his mask back on, shivering as the damp mask covered him. He was ready. He cautiously approached the broken window he had come through, looking up at Owl’s office that was three floors above where he was. He couldn’t see any movement from his vantage point but knew that he was probably still there.

He had to approach this better. He couldn’t go in there angry and reckless: he was too injured to brute force this and fight for a lengthy period of time. He had to fight smarter, not harder. At least Taskmaster was out of the fight.

That gave him an idea. He swabbed out his normal webs for the stronger variety on his left webshooter. Owl was as strong as him at least, and if he couldn’t get out of this web neither would Owl.

Thwipping a web across the space, Miles stepped onto the window’s ledge and swung across. He camouflaged as he climbed up to the broken window, peering inside.

Mysterio was back awake, helmet off and angrily tugging at the cocoon of webs around Taskmaster. Owl was nearby, on his phone and watching Mysterio with a sneer on his face.

Fingers beginning to tingle, he carefully climbed inside and moved across the space. He couldn’t attach Owl to the floor, or he’d be lugging a body and the floor.

He moved until he was facing Owl’s side. Carefully aiming, he shot the web and plastered Owl’s arm to his body.

Owl dropped his phone in shock, whirling around only to meet Miles’s fist. Owl smacked to the ground, free arm coming up to defend his face, and he webbed that to his body too. Mysterio looked up in astonishment but was too slow as Miles used the normal webs to pin him to the cocoon.

Miles grinned. That was easier than he had expected. “You really should have been paying more attention.”

“Miles,” Owl snarled, trying to get to his feet without his arms. Miles rolled his eyes and kicked him back down, grabbing his legs a second later and webbing them together.

“Alright, Mr. Owl, you have an appointment with an old friend of yours,” Miles crowed, picking up Owl and throwing him over his uninjured shoulder. That made Owl start wriggling in alarm, almost enough for him to topple over before he readjusted.

“W-wait! Don’t take me to Fisk!” Owl pleaded.

“I will venom strike you until you’re unconscious if you don’t keep still,” Miles snarled, striding over to the window. “In fact, you’re lucky I haven’t killed you myself.”

“I can- I can pay for your college! Name your price, twenty thousand? Fifty thousand?” Owl tried to bargain.

Miles stepped up onto the window ledge, reorienting himself until he knew which way to go. “Maybe I would have felt more open to a deal if you hadn’t let your friend Kravinoff reveal my identity, you asshat,” he said, though that was a lie. He would have never made a deal with Owl. Not with everything that had happened. It did wonders to make Owl stutter through an apology, though.

It took no longer than five minutes before Miles was at the bottom of Fisk’s tower. He landed with a small stumble as Owl started struggling again, his pleas to be let go growing increasingly desperate.

He walked into the lobby to be greeted by the receptionist. She was the same one from last time, but this time she smiled at him as he approached the desk. He hoped she was getting a decent amount of overtime, considering it was approaching midnight. “Hello Mr. Morales, Mr. Owlsley. The elevator is waiting for you,” she instructed, professionally ignoring his wriggling cargo.

Tilting his head in acknowledgment, he got into the elevator and pressed the button to go up. The same disdain for how fancy it all was bubbled up, but he just took a deep breath and ignored it. He was too tired to be mad over this.

He would drop his cargo with Fisk and go home. He would give Mamá and Dad a big hug, tell them about how he really had handled the whole thing and he should keep being Spider-Man, deal with his wounds, and then go to bed. He just wanted this day to be over.

He knew that the fallout from Kravinoff was still going to be… big. Something he wasn’t prepared to deal with. But at least his parents had found out about his identity before the fight and weren’t going to learn about it from the morning news.

Dealing with his arrangement with Fisk was going to be another matter. With Owl out of the picture, and his identity known to everyone now, it probably wasn’t needed at all. He probably could give it a week and start taking Fisk down too - once he was healed.

The elevator doors opened with a ding and Miles strode in. Fisk was waiting for him, hands clasped in front of him on the desk and a grin on his face.

When he was a few meters away from the desk he dropped Owl ungraciously, letting him hit the floor with a yelp of alarm. He didn’t look down at him though, eyes trained on the shark in front of him.

“I fulfilled my side of the bargain,” Miles stated simply, crossing his arms. “Do whatever you want with him, I don’t care.”

“Indeed you did,” Fisk grinned, his eyes almost manic in delight. He pressed a button on his phone and two guards came out of the elevator a moment later. They barely even looked at Miles as they grabbed Owl between them and began dragging him out of the room.

Owl screamed and hollered, begging desperately for help, but Miles refused to look at him. A slimmer of guilt struck him, but all he had to do was remember the months of pain he had endured specifically because of him and he was able to stamp it down.

“I protected your family, and now the deal is done,” Fisk’s grin turned toothier, morphing into something that sent a shiver running down Miles’s spine. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up as Fisk reached into one of his drawers, reaching for something inside.

But his spider-sense wasn’t going off. There wasn’t an explosion. The floor didn’t drop out from under him. Chains didn’t wrap around him. Instead, a TV lifted out of the ground to Fisk’s right and flickered on.

The blood drained from his face, his heart racing as his legs threatened to give out under him. Oh, god, no!

Mamá, Dad and Mrs. Parker appeared on the screen in the spider lair. Completely unaware of the danger, Miles could only choke on a scream as sand swept into the room, beginning to flood the room. He watched as they spotted what was happening: Mrs. Parker desperately trying to reach for something by the computer, his Dad reaching out for Mamá’s hand - but they were too far away from each other, and then they were up to their chests in hard, compact sand.

All from one source: Sandman. A villain that hadn’t been seen in years, but who had fought the previous Peter before. His distinctive green-striped shirt betrayed his identity even as he hid in the background.

It struck him a moment too late who exactly Fisk had hired to protect his parents. The stray bits of sand he had noticed hadn’t stuck out to him, seemingly innocuous.

Of course when the deal was done Fisk would have set up his revenge with the one person who could instantly kill them. Fisk had called him a threat, had called him powerful. Of course he would get rid of the biggest threat to his empire as soon as it was convenient. And of course Miles had taken the deal, too afraid to take on two enemies at once when they both knew his identity.

It was all his fault.

A small part of himself was grateful that they couldn’t see him or the state he was in. The webs over his wounds, his costume frayed and torn. They wouldn’t have to see how helpless he was, how he couldn’t do anything to save them. They could die thinking he had done everything in his power to stop this from happening - instead of the reality that he was frozen to the spot.

Fisk had played him. Fisk had convinced him to let him guard his family, and now with one word, he could kill them.

Fisk stood up, eyes manic with the power he held over Miles. “Kneel,” he ordered.

He couldn’t drag his eyes off the screen. He was ice cold, so tense he was shaking. Numbly, he obeyed. “Please,” he begged, eyes brimming with tears. “I did what you wanted. I-I stopped Owl. I’ll- I’ll never go after you. Please.”

He had run out of options. He couldn’t fight Fisk and risk him giving the order to drown them. If he fought Fisk to try and get him to order Sandman to stop, he would just bring the gavel down sooner. He couldn’t swing to them. He would never be fast enough. They were in Queens, he was in Manhattan.

He couldn’t do anything.

He could only watch them die.

He had failed them.

Fisk shoved his desk away from in front of him, lumbering over to tower over Miles.

“You took everything from me,” he snarled. “You took my family, my business, my freedom from me. Yet you thought I would just let you get away with murdering my wife and son!”

“No!” Miles protested, unable to bite his tongue at the accusation. “Bringing them from another universe would have never-”

“Silence!” Fisk bellowed. He flinched away too slowly: Fisk’s hand was around his throat, lifting him into the air and squeezing harder by the second. Miles choked on his words, clawing desperately at his arms, kicking with all his might.

He lit up in a desperate attempt to venom strike Fisk, but Fisk only laughed at him. “Your old tricks won’t save you this time,” he hissed. “My suit is fully insulated against that little power of yours.”

He slammed Miles back down onto the ground, the floor cracking under the force, and he felt something in his shin snap. Miles hacked and heaved, collapsing onto his side. Iron filled his mouth, choking him and preventing him from sucking in any air.

“I won’t let you interfere ever again,” Fisk sneered. “I’m going to make you feel every shred of grief I have.”

Miles looked past Fisk’s face, to the TV. Sand had filled up the room even more, but he could still see their struggling forms in perfect clarity. He was never going to go home again. Even if he somehow survived, his whole family would be dead. It would never be home without them.

“Get up,” Fisk snarled at him, and Miles struggled to comply. His whole body was aching, his spider-sense was screaming, and he was drowning in grief. But he managed to get to his knees.

“Please,” he choked out again, despite knowing it wasn’t going to change anything.

Fisk looked back at the TV again, and Miles did too. The screen was completely covered by sand now. They were dying. He had failed them. He was a failure. He was a coward .

Movement caught his eye and he jerked back. Fisk’s giant fist was raised high above his head.

His manic eyes would be the last thing he saw.

As useless as it was, he shielded his head with his hands - like that would do anything to protect himself.

“Goodbye.”

He was out before he hit the ground.

Chapter Text

Splash.

Water as cold as ice soaked him, dragging him mercilessly awake. Opening his eyes didn’t help: the pitch black disoriented him as he sunk ever faster down, precious air escaping from reach.

He tugged uselessly at his bound arms and legs as the water got under his mask and into his oxygen supply. He gasped in the last of the stored air before swallowing a mouth full of water.

Panic swept over him. With a burst of desperate strength, the ropes around his arms snapped. He reached up and realized he was surrounded by fabric - a bag, probably. He flailed around for the zip, but his numb fingers refused to latch on to anything.

Catching an edge, he tried to tear it open but it wouldn’t rip. He grabbed it with his other hand, clenching his teeth as his fingers cramped. Already his muscles were seizing up in the bitterly cold water. He latched on and tugged as hard as he could, ripping a hole that revealed moonlight glimmering through the murky water.

He kicked the hole wider and flailed to get out. As he cleared it, his feet caught on the rapidly sinking bag - was it weighed down? The material was heavy and waterlogged, and he was helpless to escape as it dragged him down…

Down…

Down …

Darkness edged his vision as his lungs cried out for the unreachable air above him.

He had no energy. He was in so much pain. His limbs were cold and stiff. Every movement sapped his strength. 

His feet hit the sludge, muck disturbed and rising around him. It further confused his waning mind. Yet he could feel calmness, peace, begin to wash over him.

Would it be so bad? To die here?

I tried my hardest.

Maybe it would be okay to succumb to the waves…

His thoughts flashed to Fisk, standing above him, grinning like a shark as he made his worst nightmare come true. He had played Miles like a fiddle, knowing there was nothing he could do but watch as he murdered everyone he loved.

Smiling with joy as he watched Mrs. Parker, Mamá and Dad try so hard to survive. Seeing him, beaten and bruised and used .

No…

No, not like this! Not when Fisk had to pay!

He grabbed for his legs, reaching down despite every instinct screaming at him to just go up . Barely able to feel his fingers, he undid the knots holding the rope together around his legs. He yanked them off.

With one last boost, one last desperate attempt, he pushed himself off the sea floor. He reached for the sky beyond the sea, swimming with all his rapidly waning strength.

His head breached the surface, the world greeting him with an overwhelming mix of noise and light. The neon landscape of New York was alive. He gulped down air like a starving man, barely able to breathe past his soaked mask.

Still reeling, vision fuzzy around the edge, he weakly swam over to the closest pier. He gripped onto it in an attempt to keep himself from sinking again. He was dizzy with air, or from the blood staining the water around him.

He leaned his head against the wood, trying not to think, just trying to breathe, to recover. Every breath billowed into the world in a puff of mist, reminding him of how cold he was. Shivers wracked his body, threatening to dislodge him.

He glanced up at the moon, the thing that had anchored him to the world, and watched as it began to disappear under the horizon.

In twelve hours everything had changed. Yesterday he had been preparing to face Kraven, wondering what would happen and if he would survive the encounter. But he had faced him knowing it would protect his family.

Turns out it didn’t matter. He had played himself.

They were dead and it was his fault.

His breath hitched, a warm tear seeping into his mask. It was a sharp contrast against the wet, stiff fabric that chilled to the bone.

Attempts to blink away his tears proved useless. They kept coming like a breaking dam, an unstoppable river. Their faces swirled in his head like a whirlpool - the look as they realized they were going to die. Suffocated by sand.

A sob broke through, shaking his entire body. It was all his fault. He was so stupid. So, so stupid, and now here he was. Half-dead and half-drowned. And they were dead. He had gambled their lives with a bitter enemy and now they were dead.

They were dead and he had no one else to blame but himself.

Sobs wracked his body, jostling his injuries and bringing them back to life as the adrenaline faded. He deserved it. Maybe it was better to let himself succumb to the sea. At least then he could look them all in the eye and tell them how sorry he was.

It was exhaustion more than anything that had his sobs petering out. Almost reluctantly, he began looking for a way out, knowing he truly would succumb if he didn’t get out of the water.

He couldn’t die yet. He could just imagine the scolding he would get, wherever they were, if he gave up without a fight. Especially when the man responsible was strutting around like the king of New York.

I can’t bring them back, he resolved, but I can make that bastard pay.

There was no boat ramp, no ladders, only the wooden supports holding the pier up. He reached up, clenching his eyes shut as his shoulder tensed up and sent agonizing, burning pain through him. He swallowed the bile building in his throat, refusing to stop.

He reached up again, his legs coming out of the lapping waves. He tried to use them as leverage, but his left leg gave out as pain like a scalding iron enwrapped his whole leg. He gasped out, tears flooding his vision.

He was forced to rest, cheek pressed against the wood. He wanted so badly to give up. To just let go and rest.

But he couldn’t.

He had to get out of the water.

With shaking limbs he reached up again, managing to grip onto the railing of the pier. He reached up with his other hand, latching onto the walkway, and pulled himself up.

Solid ground under him, he collapsed.

As the morning sun finally greeted him, rays of light blanketing him, he was helpless to stop his exhaustion from catching up to him. Between one blink and the next, he was out cold.

A hand on his chest stirred him, but not enough for him to do more than moan in agony.

There was a voice, calling his name, but his spider-sense was quiet. He didn’t have a reason to wake. He drifted back into unconsciousness as he was lifted up, head lolling into their chest.

The sounds of distant, muffled traffic drifted into his senses first.

Miles blinked once, twice, struggling to keep himself awake. His fingers twitched, curling into themselves. His head tipped to the side. He absently noted the multi-colored window and the neon billboard outside, advertising some beer brand.

Every breath felt heavy, like someone had put a weight on his chest. He tried to anchor himself on his right elbow to get up, but inhaled sharply and gave up when sharp, biting pain shot up his shoulder.

He reached down, finding the edge of a fluffy, warm blanket on him. His eyes shot up and he forced himself to sit up despite the pain. He wasn’t on the pier. He wasn’t in a hospital. He wasn’t in a prison cell.

He was on a cracking leather couch in a dingy, dark apartment. His Spider-Man suit was gone, replaced with an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. He pulled the sleeve down, breathing easier when he discovered that his webshooters were still on.

Pulling the hoodie up, he found his chest wrapped up in a tight layer of bandages. Same thing for his shoulder. His forehead and cheek had large Band-Aids on them, and his left leg was wrapped at the thigh and casted at the shin. He was littered with wounds, but someone had taken the time to care for him.

He allowed himself to lean back against the cushions. Wherever he was, they had taken care of him. He just hoped they had good intentions for him.

His eyes began to slip shut again, willing himself to not think, when the sound of a cupboard door closing brought his attention back. A man walked into view and placed a glass of water and a pill down on the coffee table.

Miles watched him warily, fingers ready on his webshooter, but all the man did was look down at him and say, “For the pain.”

And he left. The man walked away like he didn’t have a fifteen-year-old heavily injured on his couch - like this was somehow normal. He exited the apartment to go wherever it was he wanted, because Spider-Man on his couch wasn’t a big deal.

After a long moment, he looked back at the water, eyeing it, trying to determine how badly he wanted it. It could be a trap. It could be poisoned, or drugged, or- 

His lips were dry and his mouth was completely parched. Probably made worse from the salt water he had swallowed in his panic to survive.

He reluctantly leaned over, grabbed the water, and sniffed it like that would somehow prove it was safe. It didn’t make him feel any better. He took a sip, waiting to see if it had some effect on him, and when it didn’t he gulped the rest down.

Putting the glass back down, he glanced at the little white pill and pushed it away. If this guy thought he would trust him, he was sorely mistaken.

He laid back down again, bringing the blanket up to his chin with his good hand. Sleep easily dragged him down into dreamless, black sleep.

Sunlight warmed his body, slowly waking him and pulling him into reality. He tilted his head to the side, looking out the windows again. The billboard was still there. He glanced out the window further to the left, finding a vaguely familiar landscape. After a long moment, he realized what part of New York he was in - Hell’s Kitchen.

The sound of shoes on tiled floor behind him drew his attention. He closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up higher. He didn’t want to face this man. Didn’t want to have to find some way to pay him back before leaving. He wanted to pretend like he hadn’t killed his whole family and almost drowned, and live in a reality where everything was okay.

The man moved into the light, blocking the warm sunshine draping over him. There was the sound of clinking, two sets of something being placed down and then squeaking as the coffee table was moved closer to the couch.

Miles reluctantly opened his eyes, gaze catching on a white bowl and glass of water. He could see steam rising from the bowl, a deliciously rich smell wafting over to him.

“Eat,” the man said. He finally looked up at him to study him properly. He was a man in his mid-thirties, dressed up in a suit and tie. He had a light beard and a wonky nose - like had been punched one too many times. Red-lensed, round glasses prevented Miles from looking him in the eyes. “You need it.”

A spoon was placed down next to the bowl and the man walked away. When Miles felt like he was far enough away he carefully began to sit up, keeping his weight off of his shoulder. He began to reach for the spoon but then realized what was in the bowl.

It was a creamy soup of some kind, it looked fine - but it had small lumps in it, bobbing at the surface. He froze. No, no he wouldn’t fall for this. He wouldn’t let whoever this was drug him and hand him over to Fisk.

He laid back down, pulling the blanket up and over his head. As much as his stomach grumbled in protest, he would get over it quickly. He had done it before, he could do it again.

Footsteps walked into the room and he heard a sigh. Despite himself, he flinched, curling into himself.

“You have to eat: you’ve had nothing for days. You won’t heal,” the man told him.

Miles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he croaked. His own voice startled him, unfamiliar. His windpipe must have been hurt more than he thought.

The standstill stretched in the uncomfortable silence, eventually broken as the man seemingly gave up and walked into the kitchen behind him. He let himself untense, but not relax, ready to make things difficult if he tried to drag him away or, or something.

He heard the familiar sound of a drawer opening, cutlery clinking. Footsteps came back over and he peeked out of the blanket. Metal clinked against ceramic, and he watched with wide eyes as the man served himself a spoonful of the soup. Without hesitation he ate it, lumps and all, before putting the spoon down on the coffee table and walking away.

Miles tracked him with his eyes, watching as he picked up a briefcase and walked out of sight. There was the sound of a door opening, closing, and being locked.

He finally sat up, unbundling his legs from the blanket and putting his feet down on the ground. He picked up the bowl, situating it on his lap, and, with a moment of hesitation, began eating it.

Each bite reminded him of just how hungry he was after having nothing for who knew how long. Before he knew it, he was scraping at the last of it. He picked up the glass of water, sniffed it just to be sure, and that was gone in seconds too.

He put it back down, the ache from his stomach finally appeased, and leaned back. He let himself soak in the sun, closing his eyes for a moment to bask in it.

Down in May’s spider lair, their bodies would never again feel the warmth of sunshine…

His breath hitched, a stray tear falling down his cheek and dissolving on the band aid on his cheek. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to get rid of the gathering tears. He didn’t want to think about them. He couldn’t stop thinking about them.

He wanted to focus on avenging them, but the thought just made him feel… cold.

He had barely stopped him the first time, at the collider. He hadn’t stopped him this time, with all the experience he had gained as Spider-Man. How could he possibly face him again, with no tricks to back him up, and win?

Sure, he had beaten Owl. But that was cold comfort. Fisk had probably integrated Owl’s empire into his own by now, taking all the research and artificially super-powered people with him. He hadn’t made New York safer. All his efforts to get rid of the program that had kidnapped him had been for naught.

He was probably the worst Spider-Man around.

He brought his legs back onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around him. First the Peter of his world, then Uncle Aaron, and now in one swift motion, Mrs. Parker, Mamá and Dad. All killed by Fisk, all preventable. He had killed the Parker and Morales family. He was a curse.

He was the worst.

When he woke next, still sitting upright on the couch, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. The agony of his fresh wounds had begun to fade, though the background pulsing noise of pain was still strong.

He realized a moment later what had disturbed him, as he heard footsteps walk in behind him. He whipped around, regretting it as his vision spun, only to find it was just the man.

The man paused. His head was angled in such a way Miles was sure he was looking past him. “Evening,” he greeted, putting the briefcase down and moving into the kitchen.

“Um, hi,” he eventually greeted, looking down at his hands. The scarred lines from the facility caught his eye, and he quickly looked back out the window.

He heard the man bustling around the kitchen, putting something on the stovetop and turning it on. Two bowls were put on the counter, followed by two glasses. Miles sat staring out the window but listened intently to what was happening behind him.

The paranoia of the food being tampered with, that all this was a lie, ate at him. He knew, logically, that no one would put in the effort of healing him, feeding him, making sure he was going to live, just to then hand him over to someone who would kill him. Logically, he knew he had no reason to worry.

Instinctually, he was terrified of being wrong.

It wasn’t long before the man was setting down a bowl of soup in front of him, freshly heated up, a piece of toast on a plate beside it with a glass of water. The man sat on the couch adjacent to Miles, digging into his own bowl.

Shaking the weariness away, he picked up his bowl and began to eat too. He hadn’t heard his food get tampered with, or containers being opened, or anything of the sort. The man was eating from the same batch of soup as he was. It was… safe.

The man let the silence hold, filled only with the muffled sounds of New York’s nightlife, the clinking of metal spoons against ceramic. Miles felt too uneasy to break it, too raw. 

When everything was devoured, the man went about collecting it all up again and placing it in the sink. He heard him pull something out from under the sink and walk back around. He was holding a med kit fit for a small army.

Miles frowned, the detail catching his attention. Something about it itched at him, like he wasn’t connecting dots he should.

“I’ve left it long enough,” the man began, opening the med kit and pulling out various items, “I do need to redress your wounds.”

Miles opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, and quietly asked, “Why are you helping me?”

That caused him to pause, looking up at Miles. His eyes finally seemed to focus on him, face pinching into a frown. Then it smoothed out, a small smile - no, smirk - growing on his face. “You haven’t figured out who I am?”

“Should I have?” Miles snapped, harsher than he intended.

The man put his hand out in a placating gesture, “No.” He offered his hand for a handshake. “I’m Matt Murdock, attorney at law. I’m also Daredevil.”

Oh. That’s why he would have such a well-stocked med kit. He gingerly accepted the shake, heat warming his cheeks. “Miles Morales, Spider-Man.”

He went back to bringing out some large plasters and bandages, cutting them to size. Miles took a deep breath, looking back down at his lap. “Thank you. For saving me. Three times now.”

“I’m not keeping track,” The man - Daredevil - Matt said lightly. “We’ll start with your forehead wound.”

Miles reached for the bandage, fiddling with it trying to catch a loose edge, before managing to peel it off. He resisted the urge to feel the wound and understand how bad it really was, despite his curiosity. Matt was quick to wipe it down with some antiseptic-soaked cotton balls, cleaning it, before replacing the bandage with a new one.

“You were right,” Miles admitted quietly. Matt made a small hmm? noise, encouraging him to go on. “That - that I wasn’t ready to face these threats.” His breath hitched, but he managed to still himself before he could start crying.

It was only when the wound on his cheek had a new bandage on it that Matt finally replied. “You weren’t. I should have helped you out more.”

Miles frowned, looking at him in complete bafflement. “What? I was the one who- who charged into danger. How is that your fault?”

“You’re fifteen,” he said, like that answered anything. It did not.

They didn’t say much as Matt quickly and efficiently changed the wrappings around his chest, except to remark that his rib was healing well. It was only when he was working on his shoulder that he had built up enough courage to ask, “What’s happened… since Kravinoff?”

Matt's fingers paused in wrapping his shoulder, and when he started up again, it was more hesitant.

“It was a few hours before the fighting ended. The public doesn’t understand where all the fighting came from, or why it ended. With no real answers, and only one superhero who was in a visible fight before New York turned to chaos…”

“They’re talking about me,” Miles summarized numbly.

“Yes. It doesn’t help that you’re the successor of one of New York’s most beloved superheroes. Or that you just had your secret identity revealed,” Matt explained, leaning back as he had finished wrapping his shoulder. “Or that you haven’t been seen since, nor have your parents.”

His breath hitched, tears streaming down his face before he could stop them. They really were gone. He really had killed them. He roughly rubbed them away, grimacing as he disturbed the wound on his cheek. The one he got when Fisk knocked him out.

“They- Fisk…” he tried to explain, struggling to keep himself together, “Sandman, he suffocated them. I was- I had to- to watch. I couldn’t do anything-”

Matt abandoned treating his thigh and put a comforting hand on his knee. Miles covered his mouth, turning his face away as he tried to cobble together any semblance of dignity he had left.

“You can stay here as long as you need,” Matt said solemnly. “No one knows you’re here, no one saw you on the pier, you’re safe. You have time to decide what you want to do.”

Miles sucked in a breath, paused, and slowly let it out. “I want him- him dead,” he spat out. “He’s taken e-every- everything from me.”

Matt went back to treating the puncture marks on his thigh. As Miles sniffled miserably, trying desperately to pull together the broken parts of himself, Matt seemed drawn into his own thoughts.

“Your life will be different,” he said, seeming to struggle for the right words. “Miles Morales will be a public figure, regardless if you keep the suit on or not. There will be a lot of questions for you. There will be a time before this, and a time after. Right now, you’re in a moment where you get to decide what you will be. You can make the important decisions while you recover.”

Miles studied Matt’s face, the sincerity, the concern, as he finished treating Miles. He began to gather everything back together in the organized chaos that was his med kit.

“I don’t know what to do,” Miles admitted. “I don’t know what to be.”

“Yourself is fine.” Matt smiled as he stood up. “You’ll get through this. You’re not alone.”

He hesitated, eyes straying to look out the window. At the tall buildings, the glimmering lights.

Fisk was out there somewhere, basking in the knowledge that he had won. “I think… I’d like to repair my suit.”

Miles’s fingers ached after a day of methodical stitching. 

It was a good ache, one he welcomed. One that was all his own.

His costume wasn’t picture-perfect, the spots where his costume had been torn were fairly obvious. The fabric Matt had was different from the black Mrs. Parker had, but it blended in well enough. The suit was ready to go.

He would have to learn how to make his own suit on his own, and wasn’t that a punch to the gut? He had learned how to fix the suit so he wasn’t visiting Mrs. Parker after every single fight but he had never done it from scratch. He didn’t even know how she had reinforced the costume.

When his suit was done, he went and grabbed his webshooter. He had ended up using up four cartridges last time, having completely used up one on Taskmaster. He didn’t regret that - Taskmaster had more than proven himself capable of taking him down.

He had enough web fluid for round two, and that's all that really mattered. He would have preferred a full stock - but he had never really learned how to make it. Ganke had. Ganke had always been better at chemistry than him.

Was Ganke still alive? It was impossible for him to know, and a part of him wanted to shrink away from finding out. Schrödinger’s cat. Plausible deniability.

Miles had sat by the window - people-watching to kill time. Matt didn’t have a TV for him to help him pass time. He watched, a bitter feeling blooming in his chest, a family eating ice cream on the street corner. How the boy was so carefree, smiling and laughing with his parents. 

Miles tipped his head to rest against the cold glass. He resigned himself to some basic small talk as Matt got home - how was your day? Fine. Have any wounds reopened? No. How was work? Fine. He absently listened to Matt putting his stuff down and going into the kitchen. He heard the ruffling of Matt’s shirt as he rolled his sleeves up.

He couldn’t help his thoughts drifting, stuck on the family. Stuck on his family. “It will only be a few days before I’m fully healed,” Miles began, fingers absently stroking over the scar on his left hand. The skin was still raised and lighter than the surrounding skin.

Matt paused from chopping some vegetables but didn’t comment.

“I need Fisk dead,” he finished, glancing over at Matt.

Matt continued with the vegetables, not looking up at him. “He almost killed you once-”

“Twice, technically.”

“-he’ll kill you if you try again.”

Miles buried the indignant feeling of his abilities being questioned, eyes straying to the window. “My family’s dead,” he finally replied. “What more could he take?”

That had Matt putting down his knife, eyebrows furrowed as he looked in his direction. “You’re grieving. You are fifteen years old. You have the rest of your life to live. Don’t waste it on revenge.”

“I got my whole family killed, you don’t understand,” Miles snapped, bringing his knees up to his chest. “They drowned in sand. Sand! All because of Fisk and how I stupidly trusted him to keep his word. I killed them. He killed them. I can’t live with myself if he’s still alive.”

The silence stretched out between them.

“He only beat me because… because he had his hand on the ‘trigger’,” Miles grumbled, blinking the memory of that moment away. “I fought him when I was new, when I knew nothing. I can do it again. I can win.”

Matt slowly walked out of the kitchen and to the couch, sitting down. He seemed to give Miles an assessing look, but Miles stubbornly just stared straight ahead.

“...If this is what you really want, I’ll help you. Fisk does need to be taken down. But only when you’ve healed up completely.”

That was reasonable, that was fair. He leaned back, finally looking across at Matt. “Ok.”

By evening of the next day, with no rest to catch up on and no media to consume, nothing to do but wait… Miles was bored out of his mind.

Matt helped him get his makeshift cast off that night, and Miles was now able to get around with only a barely noticeable limp. His shoulder and thigh were healed, his forehead was only a scar, and his cheek was still bruised - but looked two weeks old. Really, all that was left to heal were his ribs, which still ached when he bent over.

Flexibility was basically a requirement of being Spider-Man, so he begrudgingly agreed to wait for that to heal too. The boredom, though, was a more pressing issue.

Convincing Matt to let him go get his backpack - the one that had been patiently waiting for him since Kravinoff - was the hardest part.

“No.”

“I’ll cover my face. There are millions of New Yorkers and only one me. No one will figure it out,” Miles argued. “I will literally start walking on these walls I'm so bored. Someone will definitely notice that. The old lady across the street has been watching your apartment with her binoculars, you know that?”

Matt pursed his lips, brows furrowed. “What happens if they notice you?”

“They- they won’t. I can just turn invisible. It’ll be fine - no one will know. Besides, I have to know what’s happening. What- what I’ll be walking into.” Miles stood up from the couch, giving in to the urge to restlessly pace.

He paused, looking out the window. He took a deep, grounding breath, turning to Matt. “I have to know if my friend is okay. He’s… he’s all I have left. Fisk killed- killed everyone else. I don’t know if he’s safe.”

Of all the things he had said, all the reassurances he had given, that was the thing that finally had Matt giving him the go-ahead.

Wrapped in an oversized hoodie, a red scarf wrapped around his face up to his nose, he blended in. He was glad it was fall - no one would blink an eye at a tourist wrapped in so much.

He swayed with the moving train cart, lightly holding on to the nearest pole. It was quiet for a Monday, but it was one pm. The lunch rush had ended and the school rush was yet to begin. The train cart he was on had maybe ten people.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from darting around nervously, cataloging each person as they got on and off the train. He tried to be discreet about it, to limited success when he made eye contact with an old man three separate times. 

Only a thin piece of fabric protected his now-known identity from revealing his unknown location. He had to be careful.

At the next stop, a small handful of people got on. Including a little girl, no older than eight, her hair up in tight pigtails. She was in a puffy purple jacket and black pants, tightly holding her mom’s hand. The girl had the wide-eyed wonder and nervousness of someone who wasn’t used to traveling this way.

As her mom sat down, putting the girl on her lap, he could feel her eyes boring into him.

Their eyes met. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, before remembering she couldn’t see it. He gave her a small nod instead, the scarf slipping off his nose before he quickly put it back up.

Even without his identity, there was no need to reveal the bruise on his cheek.

Her eyes lit up, her mouth opening in awe.

Oh no.

“Spider-Man!” she gasped out, loud enough for a few people to look his way.

He quickly looked away from her, pulling his scarf up more firmly, but it slipped back down his face. He looked up, met the eye of the old man - now assessing him with an inquisitive look, and darted his eyes down to the floor.

“You’re Spider-Man!” the little girl declared, her mom quietly trying to shush her. “I’ve seen your face on the news!”

He shook his head, his spider-sense whispering to him that people were watching him. “Nope, don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested, tugging the hood further down like that would make any difference. Kravinoff had screwed him - everyone, everyone knew who he was.

“Mommy said you got hurt!” the little girl continued on. “And he got hurt on his forehead, just like you! You’ve got a scar on your forehead.”

He clenched his eyes shut, fighting the urge to go invisible. That would only confirm it. This was a mistake. A terrible, dumb mistake. He should have walked instead of taking the subway. At least then if someone got a glimpse of him he could flee.

“Spider-Man saved my husband a few months ago,” a woman’s voice said, her voice shattering the tense silence. He couldn’t help but glance up, head turning to look at the speaker. It was a lady in light blue scrubs, her blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looked him in the eye as she continues, “If he hadn’t been there to get him out of the way of that runaway car, he would have  died. Thank you.”

“I’m- I’m not-” he tried to stutter out, but was interrupted as a man in casual clothes spoke up.

“I was walking home from work,” the man began. Miles’s scarf had fallen off of his face, pooling around his neck. He didn’t bother to fix it. “Two drunk guys stepped out of an alleyway and tried to mug me. They were bigger than me. One of them swung at me, but Spider-Man caught it like it was nothing. Like it was easy. Sent them on their way before leaving. Thank you.”

Miles’s mouth hung open, stuttered protests reduced to nothing in his throat. His cheeks had warmed up and his knees felt so weak he might have to sit down.

The mother of the small girl spoke up, a bittersweet look on her face. “I was loading my groceries into my car, I thought she was just by my side. I heard a scream and- and screeching tires. I heard this thump. I thought she had been hit by a car, all because I wasn’t paying attention.” Her eyes bore into his, leaving him with no choice but to meet her gaze. “It was you. You had stepped in front of the car, Katie here in your arms. You had taken the full brunt of the car’s impact. You saved her.”

He looked down at the girl, Katie, the one who had figured him out. She still had a starry-eyed look in her eyes. He didn’t recognize her, though that wasn’t too surprising with how many people he had saved. But she knew him. She… idolized him.

He let himself survey the cart of people, all openly staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to take a slow, grounding breath. He let himself rub at the back of his neck, a nervous tick that cost him the hoodie falling off his head.

“It’s- I- I’m just happy. To have helped you guys,” he managed to get out. He swallowed, taking another big breath in. “But- but I’m not… I’m not safe yet. I need you all to keep… quiet about me.”

He heard the pole creak in protest beside him, crunching in as his strength slipped. An ironic smile twisted his features. “I’m still recovering. I can’t face anyone yet, I’m not strong enough.”

His spider-sense whispered a warning and he glanced up, narrowing in on a teenager with their phone out. A flare of anger had him webbing the phone’s camera, obscuring its view of him. “And that? That is what will get me killed right now,” he snapped, all the warm fuzzy feelings evaporated. “If he knows I’m alive, he’ll finish what he started.”

A tug on his jacket startled him out of it. It was the little girl. “But you’re Spider-Man. You always get back up.”

He crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet easily. He took a small breath and extended his fist towards her. “Sure. I’ll- I’ll try.” She fist-bumped him back, a delighted smile on her face.

Maybe if being Spider-Man meant little girls like her looking up at him with so much hope… maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be known. But right now, his safety was balanced in the hands of these strangers. He didn’t trust them. He couldn’t.

As the next stop approached, he pulled his hoodie back up and wrapped the scarf back around his face. He glanced around at the small group, nodding at the nurse, the man from the mugging, and the little girl’s mom.

It wasn’t his stop, but he stepped out as soon as the doors opened. He would walk from here.

He hoisted himself over the ledge, a weight easing off his shoulders as he spotted his backpack. It had fallen to the ground, the webs that had kept it on the wall long since dissolved into nothing, but otherwise it was intact.

Miles crouched down beside it, unzipping it. It tried to overflow with the bandages and pills and all the medical supplies in it. Definitely his backpack. His eyes stung as he zipped it back shut, reached into the front pocket, and pulled his phone out.

He took a deep breath, clutching it to his chest for a moment, before holding down the on button to turn it on from being completely switched off. Miles glanced back at the Manhattan skyline, overwhelmed by nerves twisting his stomach in knots.

He knew when his phone was back on.

Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.

Miles scrambled into his settings, barely even glancing at the messages constantly going off in his quest to shut off all his notifications. Once he had, he slumped back down, hanging his head.

This was his life now. Social media popularity had always seemed… cool. But this? Becoming popular not through his own merit but because of his secret pastime? Yeah, this was the worst.

Sucking it up, he finally went into his messages. The app was almost immediately unusable, even with notifications off. This was the worst. Officially the worst.

Miles resorted to the most direct method. The call rang once, twice, and then-

“Miles?” Ganke’s voice cracked, heartbroken and wondrous all in the same word.

His vision went blurry, tears rendering him practically blind. “Ganke… you’re alive.”

“I am, I am, but Miles. Miles, I only found out you were alive twenty minutes ago. Why didn’t you call me until now? I- I thought you were dead!” Ganke’s voice wobbled on the last word, like just saying the word would jinx it.

His whole body went cold, his warmth sapped into the cold concrete ground he sat on.

“What do you mean twenty minutes ago?” Miles dared to whisper.

“You’ve gone viral. #SpiderManisAlive is trending on Twitter Miles. Everyone has seen you on that subway car.”

That teenager. He should have broken their phone.

Fisk would be gearing up to track him down and probably try to kill him. He would be preparing to face Miles again. He had to go after him while he was still prepping. He would have to take every advantage he could get. Even if his ribs were still healing.

“Miles?” Ganke interrupted his train of thought.

“Shit. I have to go,” he breathed out, ending the call despite Ganke’s protests.

He took off the hoodie and jeans, haphazardly folding them and chucking them on top of the backpack. He was immensely grateful he had brought his suit with him - he hadn’t thought he had needed it. But he had, just in case. Just to reassure Matt.

Right, Matt. He was more grateful than ever that he had memorized his phone number that morning.

“Miles?” Matt picked up his phone on the third ring. Maybe he had seen the news already.

“Have you seen the news?” Miles asked, hopping around as he chucked his shoes off.

“No.”

He quickly brought him up to date: “- and now’s the best time to go after him. Before he’s ready for me. Time for round two.”

“Miles, no. You haven't healed yet,” Matt protested.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve fought injured. Just- if things go wrong, thank you,” Miles took a deep breath, pulling his mask over his head. “I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up, put his phone back in the front pocket, and stuffed the backpack and his clothes back under the vent. He stepped up onto the ledge of the roof, quickly surveying the landscape. It should only take ten minutes max to get to Fisk, five if he swung quickly. 

He stepped off, taking a few steps back. He shook his hands out, trying to rid the nerves in his system, and failing miserably. Time to make Fisk pay… and to stop him from experimenting on anyone else. That too.

Go time.

With a running start, he leapt off the side of the building. His first web attached and he swung low, building momentum into his next swing. He heard people’s exclaimed sounds at seeing Spider-Man again, phones coming out to film him.

He had to ignore them and just focus on swinging.

Running along the side of a building, he pushed himself to run faster, swing quicker. He ignored the background noise of pain as his ribs protested his quick movements.

Fisk had to go down. He needed to get rid of him, permanently. He had gotten out of jail before and wrecked Miles’s life. He couldn’t allow him a second chance.

First the Peter Parker of this world. Then Uncle Aaron. Mamá. Dad. Mrs. Parker. All of them dead by his hand. Maybe Miles would die by it too. But he had to try. For them. For himself.

He twisted around the corner, the Fisk building finally in sight.

Time to make him pay.

Watch out!

Miles dropped his hold on the web, falling below a comically large fist. He arched his back, backflipped, and thwipped another web. It attached to a lamppost in time for him to jerk himself up, swinging around the pole to slow his momentum so he could neatly land on the lamppost.

Half the street was covered in a layer of sand, pouring out of an open manhole. People were screaming and fleeing, but all he could focus on was the man in front of him.

He had elevated himself to Miles’s level with a pillar of sand. He had only articulated his body from the waist up, with no legs in sight. It wasn’t like he needed to, it would be cosmetic at best.

He had a toothy, cocky grin on his face like this was Christmas and Miles was a ribbon-wrapped gift. He cracked his knuckles. “Hello, Spider-Man.”

Fisk’s lackey. His parents’ murderer. Miles quivered in rage.

Fisk could wait. Fisk may have ordered it, but this man… this man was ultimately responsible for their deaths. 

“You’re going to pay for ever messing with my family, Sandman!”

Chapter Text

Miles dove for Sandman, fist aimed for his face. In an explosion of sand, half his face was gone. But he was still smiling - grinning, even. Miles went to yank his hand back, but the hole closed up and reformed like nothing had happened.

Oh no.

“Fisk has had about enough of you, kid,” Sandman said, his body shifting. Instead of Miles being caught around his face, he moved up so Miles’s fist was in his chest instead. Miles brought his legs up, trying to put more force into escaping, but all it did was send jarring pain up his arm.

“If he had actually held-” he grunted in pain, losing his train of thought- “-held his end of the deal, I wouldn’t have to go after him!”

Sandman began to move around him, sand pillaring up and creating a wall around him. His spider-sense started ringing in his ears, buzzing and disorientating as it grew increasingly insistent. He was being boxed in, the New York landscape disappearing from sight. “You and I both know that's a lie. You would have gone after his empire, regardless of any deals.”

He wasn’t wrong. “So, what now? What are you trying to do?”

A face appeared before him, just as the sand under his feet gave in and began swallowing them too. “I’ll give you one out, kid. Pack your little onesie and get out of New York. Otherwise, I’ll have to kill you.”

Half his left arm had disappeared and the sand was halfway up his calves too. The sand kept on shifting in time with his movements, keeping him firmly trapped in place. His spider-sense offered no assurances either: Sandman meant his threat.

He was going to be suffocated to death. Sandman was offering him an out, but there was no way he could trust him. This was out of his pay scale, and there wasn’t going to be a Daredevil to save him this time.

He needed more time to figure out how to escape.

“Why are those the only two options?” Miles asked, stalling. He forced himself to relax, no longer attempting to tug himself free.

Sandman gave him an inquisitive look. “I’m offering you the chance to leave New York out of mercy. Really, I’m meant to be killing you right now. Fisk’s orders.”

Fisk. It was always Fisk. 

“What, so you expect me to walk away after you and him killed my family?” he exploded, the overwhelming grief loosening his tongue before he could restrain the outburst. He knew he had to try and keep a level head and think his way out but- “They were everything to me!”

“Killed? Kid, I mean, I tried-” The sand shifted, loosening as if Sandman was crumbling under guilt. He took the chance.

Bending backward, he shot a web at the ground with his one free arm. Wrapping it around his forearm in one smooth motion, he used it as an anchor point to drag himself out of the sand. Tucking his head in close, he hit the ground in a roll before springing back up and smashing through a weak point in the wall.

He took off running, preserving his webs. Racking his brain didn’t provide any clues for how to beat him. He was being reckless, facing an enemy he didn’t know how to take down. If he failed, he would be suffocated to death. No pressure.

It was a guy made out of sand - sand! No organs, no body to hit, only millions of tiny pieces of rock that had broken down over time.

He ducked around a corner and climbed up a building, scarcely looking back even as he heard a frustrated yell from Sandman and saw a car sail through the air, crashing on the street he had just been on. He was going the wrong way if he wanted to face Fisk, but Mr. Bodyguard over here wasn’t going to let him get through.

Even if he did get through, if Sandman caught up to him as he was fighting Fisk… he couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t much use as a dead Spider-Man.

One threat at a time. One murderer at a time.

He jumped over to the next rooftop, crouching by an air vent as he took in his surroundings. How could he beat sand? Heat, maybe. Or cold. But it wasn’t cold enough for the water to freeze yet. Could he disrupt the bindings between the sand? But he didn’t know what the binding was...

A pillar of sand grew in his peripheral vision, and he took off running again just as it smashed down, destroying the air vent.

How had the Peter of his world beaten Sandman? He racked his brain but came up with a blank. He would have to figure this out on his own.

Just as his hope for winning waned, he spotted a construction site. Concrete could harden, and if enough of Sandman hardened, he would be frozen in place.

He thwipped a web at a steel beam, diving into the labyrinth of half-constructed floors. He ducked behind a wall, but peeked back. Taking the small moment of reprieve, he tugged at the sleeve of his suit and sent a cascade of sand onto the ground. Bitterly, he knew he would be finding bits of sand for weeks.

Sandman reformed himself at the entrance of the construction site, glowering. Miles' eyes narrowed. “Spider-Man, I’m not an idiot. I’ve fought your predecessor. He did the same thing.”

“No idea what you’re talking about!” he called back, acting dumb. But it made him hesitate, terror choking him. He wasn’t fighting a naïve or overconfident supervillain. He was fighting an experienced, sane supervillain who had more experience under his belt than Miles did.

In a battle of brawn, Sandman would win, even with his spider-proportional strength. He couldn’t talk him down, either. Sandman had offered him an out, and he had very obviously rejected it.

Outwitting Sandman was his only option, but he could hardly focus enough to make a plan when the swirling images of his parent's terrified faces clouded his mind’s eye. That could be his fate… Sand filling his lungs, losing sight of the world in a cascade of debris. His small oxygen supply wouldn’t save him.

Think. Come on, Spider-Man. Think.

He had already almost drowned once, not even a week ago. Somehow suffocation via water seemed less violent than at the hands of this guy.

...Water.

If Sandman knew to avoid concrete, use something else. Use water. He wouldn’t freeze, no, but it would create pathways for a venom strike to disrupt the bonds - whatever they were - between all his particles.

In the time he had been desperately figuring out a plan, Sandman had grown frustrated enough to pillar up, trying to spot where Miles was hiding without going into the construction site himself. Warring between the need to follow through on his deal with Fisk, and avoiding the humiliation of falling for a trap.

Camouflaging, he inched forward, crouching at the edge of the platform to survey the construction site. There were several concrete mixers scattered around, including one large truck that’s barrel was still rotating. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.

There had to be a water pipe here somewhere, the larger the better…

His concentration slipped in the search for his weapon of choice. It was all that Sandman needed to spot a faint outline of him. His spider-sense flared, but he failed to move before a fist the size of him had him flying across the construction site.

Slamming into a steel beam, stars in his eyes as his barely-healed ribs cracked once again, he fell to the ground floor in a heap of aching limbs.

“You really think I’m that dumb? You really think you’re better than the original?” Sandman taunted. Barely lifting his head, he reached out a hand in protest like that would stop Sandman as he destroyed every single concrete mixer. The truck was caved in. A concrete mixer was hurled a block away. Another slammed into a steel beam where its contents leaked out.

Clutching his side, he forced himself to stand up. “No, I’m not. I’m not him.”

In Sandman’s frustrated revenge on concrete mixers, he had removed the top layer of soil from the construction site. Revealing what had been hidden before.

Sandman was right over what he needed to break. It would be a hail-mary attempt, but it was the best idea he had. It was the only idea he had.

Jutting his chin forward, he gritted his teeth. “You really should remember that.”

Miles dived forward, a confused Sandman moving like a wave to avoid him, then surged forward to surround him as he avoided his ‘blow’. He hadn’t been aiming for Sandman at all.

He grabbed onto the largest pipe, the thrumming of water contained within the pipe proving his theory right.

His spider-sense throbbed, screaming at him to move.

All light disappeared, the seconds stretching out as Sandman went for the killing blow.

With all his might, he ripped a hole in the pipe, metal screeching its protest. Water gushed out in a current so strong it blew through layers upon layers of Sandman’s ball of death.

Miles ducked down out of the way, getting drenched head to toe as the water finally came back down.

Standing back up in the cover of the waterfall, he watched in vicious satisfaction as Sandman struggled to reform under the weight of the moist sand.

“This won’t stop me!” Sandman spat, a heavy fist finally formed.

Miles grinned, letting his grief fuel the pit of electricity in him. He let it grow, shaping it, keeping it locked beneath the surface of his skin. He put a foot back, centering himself, his own hands up in loose fists.

Tauntingly, he made a ‘come hither’ motion.

In a rage, Sandman threw a punch. It was sloppy, barely a blip on his spider-sense’s radar.

It was what he wanted.

Twirling out of the way, he planted both hands on Sandman’s forearm. Sandman’s eyes widened, confusion and fear clouding them.

Electricity surged from his chest, down his arms, and through the palm of his hand. Pure energy ripped through Sandman’s body, forcing Miles to clench his eyes shut against the blinding flash of light. The sand underneath his hand expanded outward before blowing him back in a loud boom.

He fell to the ground, shielding himself as splatters of wet sand rained down. One hit the lens of his right eye, blinding him.

Slowly sitting up, Miles wiped the blob of sand on his face off, examining it. It was completely normal, wet sand.

He had done it.

He had defeated Sandman.

A bubble of laughter had him doubled over, clutching his aching ribs. Fisk had tried to kill him, again, and he had won! Fisk had sent a freaking superpowered supervillain after him, and he had won!

Miles didn’t let it delude him though. Sandman would reform. Electricity wouldn’t keep him at bay forever. But it would give him the time he needed to track down his boss.

Fisk was next. Fisk was dead.

The glass shattered upon impact, littering the carpet like snow. Miles tucked and rolled, muting the force of his land, finishing in a low crouch.

Fisk slowly stood up, hulking body blocking out the light of the setting sun. A low growl rumbled in Miles’s throat, whole body tensed like a bullet in a chamber. His eyes darted around, noting the gun laid out close to Fisk’s hand. Ready for Fisk to grab.

“You’re alive,” Fisk stated. It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t a question of how. It was a fact, one that Fisk had tried very hard to falsify, but yet here he remained.

Here he was for round three. Ready to avenge the murder of his parents. For Mrs. Parker. For Peter Parker. For Uncle Aaron. For the victim in the laboratory, and all those he hadn’t seen. To avenge his secret identity, ripped from him without dignity. Fisk was the underlying cause of all of it, like poison in a well.

“I’m going to kill you,” Miles snapped. It was a fact. A reality of the webs they had woven, tying them both to this moment. Before the new day dawned, it would be the truth.

Like a strike of lightning, he thwipped two webs. One hit the gun in a glob of hard web, flinging it into the corner of the room and out of reach. The second latched onto Fisk’s shoe under the gap of his desk.

He yanked it, pulling Fisk’s feet out from under him in an undignified slap of body against tiled floor.

He leapt forward, fist curled, aiming for the head, but Fisk grabbed him by the chest and threw him into the nearest wall. The cement cracked on impact, his vision whiting out in pain. He struggled to take a breath, puffing, arm curled protectively around his ribs. It allowed Fisk time to lumber to his feet.

Rolling up his sleeves in slow, practiced motions Fisk glowered at him. “I knew I should have just killed you myself. I thought I had. I should have never left it to a goon to dispose of you.”

“Your mistake, you murderer!”

He thwipped webs on either side of Fisk, using them as anchors to kick Fisk straight into the ground. The floor cracked and gave way, sending them both plummeting down in a flurry of limbs.

Fisk barely seemed fazed by the fall, fist swinging for him. Miles used his thick body as a springboard, dodging out of the way with a back handspring.

He landed on the top of a desk, papers scattering to the floor.

Miles leapt back at Fisk, neatly dodging his outstretched leg and cracking him across the face. Blood spurted out of Fisk’s broken nose, staining the white collar of his button-up shirt.

Fisk attempted to punch him again, but he twirled out of reach. Miles wrapped his arms around his hand, holding it in a bruising grip, gripped the floor, and twisted.

Snap.

Fisk let out a strangled cry of pain, blindly attempting to get Miles off of him.

Dodging the grasping hand, he stepped over Fisk’s body - still holding onto his broken wrist - and threw him as hard as he could over his head and at the furthest wall.

His body smashed through several desks before hitting the elevator doors, barely avoiding falling down the shaft. It distantly reminded him of a bowling ball. Strike.

Miles took his time walking up to the prone, wheezing body of his nemesis, savoring the sight. “You thought you could use me. Chew me up and spit me out.” Fisk struggled to his feet, using the crumpled metal of the doors as leverage to help himself. His left hand hung limply at his side, twisted at an odd angle. “I never wanted this!”

Fisk swung at him, his punch wild and wide. Easy to dodge. Ducking under it, Miles stepped into his own punch with all his strength. It blew Fisk back and into the elevator shaft, but he didn’t let Fisk fall too far.

Miles webbed onto one of his legs, digging into the floor as Fisk’s weight dragged him forward. He attached the web to the floor and jumped over to the opposite side of the shaft, crawling down to his level.

Terror and pain clouded Fisk’s eyes as he looked between Miles, the fatal drop below, and the stationary elevator at the top. Death by an enemy, falling or crushing.

A realization struck him. Fisk had fought Peter, sure. He had fought Miles, too. But he wasn’t used to prolonged pain.

He was used to being the winner of every fight. The man with the upper hand.

Fisk had never had to fight with a broken wrist, forced to compensate for a glaring weakness.

Miles was used to it. Bitterly. Struggling through the pain of starvation, thoughts fraying at the edges. Broken wrists, hindering the strength behind a punch. Fractured ribs, restricting every breath. Cuts and blood and aches and pain.

Pain had become an old friend, a friend he could compartmentalize. Ignore. Deal with it once the battle was over. Fisk didn’t have his experience.

Fisk’s face twisted into a sneer, though it lacked any real weight with the hilarious way he kept on slowly swinging back and forth. “You won’t do it,” he wheezed out, “you’re just a stupid kid!”

“Yeah? Sending you to jail didn’t do anything to stop you. Then you come back and kill my family.” Miles straightened up, puffing his chest out. “You’ve tried to kill me, you tried to drown me. I have nothing to lose! You made sure of that!”

He rolled his shoulders, loosening up, “I can handle a bit of blood on my hands. I’m strong enough to lift trucks like they’re nothing. Your skull will be easy to cave in.”

He launched himself at Fisk, snapping the web and sending them both crashing into a new floor several stories down. Miles gripped onto his shoulders, jumping to his feet and sending Fisk over his head and into the floor. The floor cracked inwards.

Miles curled his hands into fists, a deadly blow aimed at Fisk’s head. Fisk twisted his head away and it narrowly missed, but momentum carried it into the floor.

The linoleum tiles shattered under his strength, sending him and Fisk tumbling down. Fisk grabbed onto his leg in the split second he tried to hold onto the ceiling, dragging Miles down with him.

Fisk’s lobby stretched out beneath them, the ten stories of empty space a deadly drop. He tried to pry Fisk’s fingers off of him, but Fisk had the strength of a dead man.

A walkway five stories down proved Fisk’s saving grace and Miles’s undoing. Fisk smacked into the center of it, dragging Miles down hard onto the metal railings. All the air left his body as he collapsed to the floor.

His ribs kept on taking the beating, and he was sick of it.

Fisk wasn’t much better though, still lying prone.

But he wasn’t dead.

Miles blinked through the pain, using the caved-in railing to help him back to his feet. He took a step forward, hand curling back into a fist. Electricity danced up and down his arms, illuminating them both in the darkness.

The blue light must have alerted Fisk, as he looked up. He scrambled to get up, good hand slipping on the blood and debris littered around them, awkwardly crawling backward.

“Wait! Wait.” Miles stopped, gritting his teeth. This ought to be good. “I can- can give you that scholarship-” oh he really was scared now- “-penthouse apartment,-” he finally understood that Miles wasn’t playing- “-even a Lamborghini.” Only one of them would be making it to tomorrow. “A-anything! Don’t kill me.”

Miles took a deep breath, barely flinching at the pain that it caused him. “You should have just followed through the first time.”

He lifted a hand, gesturing to the wider room. “Instead, you decided to take everything from me.”

Miles took another step forward, but Fisk didn’t flinch away this time. Like he had accepted his fate. Through bloody lips, he grinned. “Ironic, isn’t it? We’re even.”

They were, weren’t they? Fisk had lost his family in a tragedy of his own making, funding and creating the collider just so he could have them back. Killing the original Spider-Man of this world in revenge. Then Miles got caught up in the whole mess, freshly bitten and running with the goober.

Miles had stopped the collider, destroying it with the help of Gwen, Peter B., Peni, Porker, and Noir. Fisk had gone to jail but had plotted his return. Played his cards right. Used Miles for his own means before killing Miles’s family too.

Round and round in circles they went. Circles they would continue to spin in, webs weaving and crossing and tangling them both. The cycle would continue until all that would be left was the husks of who they once were.

He was a husk of what he wanted to be.

Here he was, battered and bruised, determined to kill for revenge. Tunnel visioned in the pursuit of proving a point, but even he didn’t know what the point was anymore.

This wouldn’t bring them back.

Their bodies still waited in a lonely street in Queens, cold and lifeless for him to bury six feet under. Killing Fisk wouldn’t magically return the breath to their lungs, the warmth to their bodies, the blood to their hearts.

He would still be a fifteen-year-old orphan, scarred and alone with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. The expectations of a city that knew his name, his face, and the tragedy his life was becoming.

The eyes of New York would coldly weigh him for all his sins. The furious and broken boy who killed a man out of revenge. A man who lay before him, thoroughly beaten.

A man who had killed his family through his own negligence, projecting his grief onto the closest figure to the tragedy. Spider-Man. In whatever form the hero came in.

Red and blue or black and red, it was all the same. Three families dead. Two lives remained.

One choice was left, and it was his to make.

A burst of sound shattered the silence stretching out between them.

“Miles!” Ganke’s voice cried out, jerking Miles’s attention away from Fisk and down to the bottom floor. What was he doing here-?

Quick as a snake, Fisk’s right hand grabbed onto Miles’s left foot. Blinding pain jolted through him as Fisk crushed it, disorientating him enough for Fisk to get him off balance and throw him over the railing.

Twisting instinctively, he thwipped a web that latched onto the bottom of the walkway, stopping his descent.

A giant blur of black plummeted from above, dropping to the ground and creating a massive crater. Fisk had dropped to the ground.

Ganke, foolish, brash, idiot Ganke froze like a deer in headlights, not making a move to run even as Fisk grabbed him by the throat and forced him to his knees.

More movement at the door barely blipped on Miles’s radar as he slowly let the web extend and descend to the floor. He put his hands up placatingly. “No! Don’t!”

Fisk kicked Ganke to his stomach, who cried out in pain, foot pinning Ganke down as his good hand reached for something in the inner pockets of his suit. He produced what initially looked like a gun, but had a head resembling a taser.

“The scientists never figured out your stupid spider powers,” Fisk spat, droplets of blood spraying out. He aimed the gun at Ganke’s head, whose eyes shut in terror. “They did figure out your little ability here. What do you call it? ‘Venom Strike?’ But better, concentrated, deadly.”

“Don’t hurt him, he’s not involved in this,” Miles pleaded, taking a step backward. Pure adrenaline numbed the pain in his foot.

“You still have one thing to lose,” Fisk laughed darkly, fingers tensing on the trigger, “then we’ll truly be even.”

Time slowed as he squeezed the trigger. Dancing tendrils of blue light reached out for Ganke’s head, the light reflecting off his glasses.

Miles reached forward like that would prevent the death of the one person he had left. Just this once he needed a miracle, anything to stop this.

The pit of electricity in him sang out, calling for its cousin. Pulling upon his power, the milliseconds stretched out as electricity snaked down his arm, down his bicep, through his forearm, circling his wrist, and traveling down to the tips of his fingers.

The blue light reached out, stretching forward to connect with its likeness.

They joined with what felt like a snap, the artificial mixing with the biological. He drew all its power to himself, his whole body protesting as he absorbed the concentrated supply of venom strike.

One step forward, two, fist arching back. Miles’s throat ached as he screamed against the overwhelming, suffocating strength of electricity coursing through his whole body.

His fist went through the front of Fisk’s suit jacket, burrowing in the gap between two buttons, direct contact with Fisk’s body.

Miles released all of the built-up energy.

Light consumed them both, blowing them back in opposite directions.

Miles was hurled across the space, crashing head-first into a desk, flattening it and all of its contents. 

Between one blink and the next, there was a shadow above him - blink - and they were touching him, turning him face up.

Miles groaned, fingers twitching without his permission as he got an elbow under him. He managed to look up and across the room, surveying the scene.

Fisk’s body was convulsing, stray bolts of electricity still running along his body. His chest was blackened with soot, his clothes fried. In the center of it all was a white outline in the shape of Miles’s fist that was rapidly turning black.

There was a police officer frantically talking into his walkie-talkie, calling for backup while vainly attempting to get vitals from Fisk. But every time he tried, he would get zapped and have to back away.

The fight was done. He had won.

A hand touched his shoulder, finally drawing his attention back to the person in front of him. Ganke, whose hair was standing on end like a mad scientist whose experiment had exploded, tears freely flowing down his face.

“What the hell are you doing here Ganke?” Miles wheezed out, arm protectively wrapped around his ribs. He was too exhausted to be mad, though he wanted nothing more than to ream him out.

Ganke laughed wetly. “I had to see you again, I had to come back you up.”

“You almost died,” Miles hissed, “do you realize how close you were? You’re- you’re all I have left.”

“I thought you were dead, Miles, you were dead,” Ganke protested, angrily rubbing his eyes. “You- you went off to fight Kravinoff and then no one saw anything of you, and they found blood all over an office and your parents are gone and-”

Miles forced himself to sit up and wrapped Ganke in a tight hug, ignoring the flare of pain from his ribs. Closing his eyes, he soaked in and enjoyed the fact that he was even alive to have this conversation.

“I’m okay,” he promised. “But you really shouldn’t get anywhere near a super-powered fight, okay? Or you become a hostage, and then I’ve got you and me to worry about.”

A whisper of his spider-sense had him looking back up. The lens of a camera was fixed on him, recording him. The police hadn’t had time to set up a proper barricade yet, and the vultures from the news had swooped in to get a good look at him. To watch this vulnerable, private moment between him and his best friend.

Scowling, he broke the hug. “But we really should get out of here.”

Ganke looked back, finally spotting the news crew. He nodded his agreement.

Miles attempted to get up, putting pressure on his left foot. An eerie crunch feeling had him reeling, barely suppressing a whimper of pain. He reluctantly sat back down, struggling to keep his expressions at bay. Even with his mask on, he knew how expressive the lenses could be.

A hand wrapped around Miles’s back, hoisting his arm across their shoulder. Supporting him, Ganke helped him get to his feet. He kept his foot protectively above the ground, cheeks burning as the camera watched him struggle.

Hobbling along, they passed by the body of Fisk who now had paramedics surrounding him. An oxygen mask was over his mouth, his suit and button-up shirt cut away.

Fisk might survive, he might not. Either way, Fisk wouldn’t be challenging him anytime soon. Pointing a gun at a teenager's head and attempting to kill them while on camera would be very hard to defend in court, even with the best-paid lawyers around.

The war was won. 

As they left the lobby, yet another ambulance pulled up to the scene. The street was lit up with the red and blue flashing lights of police cars, strobe-like in the dusk light.

As much as he wanted to flee the scene entirely, he knew they wouldn’t let him go. Not when the police had questions to ask and not when he knew his ankle needed more than Doctor D.I.Y to fix it.

“Can you come with me? To the hospital?” he quietly asked Ganke. The thought of losing sight of his friend when he just got him back and just saved him from death was just… too much.

Ganke turned his head to look at him, making eye contact even through Miles's reflective lenses. “Always.” 

Finally, a paramedic came up to them. He instantly recognized him, “Josh,” Miles greeted him, allowing him to wrap a supporting arm around him to help Ganke get him to the nearby ambulance. “What are you doing in Manhattan?”

“They were a bit short-staffed,” Josh explained, giving him a warm smile. “I didn’t want to see you again, considering my job, but I’m glad I got to see my favorite patient again.”

“Not as easy to carry this time around,” Miles joked.

Between the three of them, Miles was on a stretcher within a minute. The ambulance door was firmly shut behind them, but not before he spotted the same cameraman a few feet away, still recording him. Josh passed Ganke a shock blanket before stepping up to assess Miles. 

Miles took as deep of a breath as he could with his broken ribs, fingers running along the seam of his mask. It wasn’t like everyone didn’t know, but taking this step himself… It was hard.

He pulled it off, setting it to the side. Josh had a small smile that he couldn’t seem to suppress, the final confirmation that he was dealing with the same patient.

“I know we’ve done this all before,” Josh started, having adjusted the stretcher to his liking, “but I’ve got to ask some questions while we get you to the hospital.”

“Sure, ask away,” Miles said, closing his eyes and letting himself relax against the bed. Exhaustion threatened to drag him into sleep but he knew he still had a long night ahead of him.

“What’s your name?” “Miles.”

“Do you know where you are?” “Manhattan.”

“Do you have any allergies or conditions we should be aware of?” “Got bit by a spider.” He heard a quick exhale from one of them, and Miles’s mouth twitched at the corner.

“Have you taken any medication recently?” “No.”

“Have you had any operations of any kind recently?” “No.”

“Are you in any pain?”

That made him open his eyes, giving Josh a disbelieving look. “Yes.”

Josh shrugged. “I don’t know how different your body is, but this should put a dent in it. I’ve got some morphine-”

“No.” Miles cut him off, staring skeptically at the small glass vial Josh had prematurely brought out. “Nope, don’t give me anything. I’m good.”

“I can see your bone…” Josh said, eyebrows raising.

“No you can’t,” Miles denied, resolutely refusing to look at his foot. He watched Ganke blanch in the corner of his eye. “I’m good. ‘Tis but a flesh wound.”

“Will you take any pain relief?” Josh asked, not unkindly. “I know you might have a… history with medication, but you’ll heal better if you’re not in agonizing pain.”

Miles paused, eyes sweeping over Josh. His spider-sense wasn’t going off, not even whispering. He was safe, but to trust someone else when he was this hurt…

He swallowed, looking away. “Okay, alright. But- but not too much please.”

Josh nodded, looking relieved. “Sure, can do.”

The ride to the hospital had been an exercise in his ability to hide his pain. As the adrenaline wore off, the pain he was in became more and more unbearable. Josh hadn’t pushed for him to take more, but the more he winced with every bump the more he knew he might need more. The amount he had been given hadn’t nearly been enough to mask the pain.

When they did get to the hospital he had itched to put his mask back on. People watched, stared, as their neighborhood superhero was wheeled in on a stretcher.

The radiologist was very professional at least, hardly talking to him as they X-Rayed every part of him.

They gave him his own private room, which he appreciated but dreaded at the same time. He didn’t know how he would pay for all of this. It was partially why he had never gone to a hospital - but then again, he had never been this badly hurt before.

Maybe fighting before he was fully healed hadn’t been the best idea. But he was alive. He hadn’t… expected to survive to this point.

Changing into a hospital gown made him feel more… exposed. Vulnerable. The IV drip in his arm helped with the pain, but not the humiliation.

Bitterly, he wished Ganke hadn’t interrupted the fight; he would have been able to recover at home instead of going through this circus.

Ganke kept him entertained, at least. He rattled on about mundane news, from new scientific discoveries to the recent bake-sale drama - but quickly skirted that topic when Miles’s breath hitched and tears threatened. Dad had been enthusiastically preparing for that. 

When the doctors finally came around, they gave him the news straight. His tibia and fibula were broken, the fibula in two places - one at the ball of his bone and one in the middle of it that looked old. But it hadn’t healed right. His ribs had multiple fractures too, two half healed and three new breaks.

Worst of all, they recommended surgery for his foot. The surgeon ominously warned that he wouldn’t be able to keep being Spider-Man if the bones weren’t corrected.

But there was a problem. His enhanced metabolism meant the effectiveness of normal anesthetics was significantly impacted. He would be dazed at best, and even then only for five minutes. Even doped up on pain meds wouldn’t make it any easier for them to work, and the same issue of metabolism arose.

Turned out Peter had faced a similar situation early in his career. They had tried to put him under after a bad fight, but it just hadn’t worked. It had ended with him fleeing from the hospital altogether before they unmasked him. It had been a few months before he turned up as Spider-Man again after that.

As he was quickly proving, too, his biology was similar enough to Peter’s that he was in the same boat. The IV pain meds that they were using on him just to ease his pain in the interim were as high as they could legally give him, but he was fully alert regardless.

Until they could figure out how to work around it without also giving him a lethal dose of either pain or anesthetics, they had wrapped his ribs, covered his foot, and given him what pain medication they could to take the edge off. It hadn’t stopped how itchy his wrists were becoming, which only served to add another layer of misery to everything.

This wasn’t his day.

It had started with failing to stay undercover on the subway, and it had only gotten worse from there.

Scratch that, it wasn’t his week. He still had school to worry about, and- and funerals.

He had funerals to organize. At some point. Soon. One step at a time.

A knock at the door had him blearily sitting at attention. Ganke had nodded off at some point, but Miles was too on edge to join him in blissful unconsciousness. It was sometime in the early morning, the quiet hours before the sun rose once again.

The person coming in didn’t turn on the light, something he was grateful for. There was the scrape of something on the ground and the shape shuffled in.

“Matt,” Miles greeted, relaxing back into his pile of cushions. “Thought no visitors were allowed this late.”

Matt tipped his head in greeting, pulling something out of his back pocket as he approached the bed, holding it out for Miles.

Miles took it without question, then paused as he realized what it was. “Why am I holding a wallet?”

“Give me five bucks out of that,” Matt instructed. Mystified, Miles opened it and grabbed the first bill sticking out, passing it and the wallet back to Matt.

“Great, that was my retainer fee.” Matt sat down on one of the visitor chairs. “I’m hired and I’m your lawyer now, so I didn’t lie to get in here.”

Miles squinted at him, vaguely confused, but decided to move past that. “Okay, sure..?”

“I’m also your Guardian ad Litem.” When Miles continued to stare at Matt, he explained, “I’ll be representing your interests legally. I hope that works for you?”

“No that- that’s good. Useful. I- I need someone in my corner,” he reassured, eyes fluttering shut against his will.

“Always in your corner. Well done on taking down Fisk and Sandman.”

Miles grimaced. “Sure, but I ended up here. Not exactly my best job. How far has me limping around spread?”

When Matt didn’t answer, he reluctantly opened his eyes to glance over at him. “That bad? Great. Just what I needed. A broken foot that no one can fix unless I bite some leather and hold real still, and my humiliating post-battle limp being spread around. Just great.”

“If it's any consolation, people don’t think any less of you.”

Miles took the time to study Matt’s face. How his hair was plastered to his head, his tie crooked, a cut on his neck that had barely clotted. He had probably been fighting against some of the mutant villains, keeping him from coming to back him up. Guilt weighed on Matt’s shoulder.

“I’m glad that there was someone out there fighting the smaller battles. Gave me less to worry about.” That wasn’t exactly true, but he had been on a warpath. Tunnel-visioned. But in retrospect, it was good to know.

Matt nodded, pursing his lips. “Daredevil got caught up fighting against some enhanced mutants. Otherwise, he would have come to help you.”

Miles shook his head, “You should tell Daredevil that Spider-Man had it under control.” When Matt raised an eyebrow at him, he conceded. “Mostly.”

Satisfied for now, Matt leaned back. Then he frowned, glancing up in Miles’s direction. “The doctors can’t put you under?”

“No. They’re worried about giving me a lethal dose of something,” Miles confirmed with a sigh.

“Can I feel something?” Matt asked.

“Um, sure. Don’t know where you’re going with this,” he said with a frown.

“Give me your hand.”

Miles did so, stretching his left hand out for Matt to look at. Matt lightly ran a hand over the scar on his wrist. One of the ones he had gotten from the facility. The facility felt like forever ago, but only yesterday at the same time. He resisted the urge to take his hand back to scratch it.

Matt seemed to hesitate before asking, “This was done by a surgeon of some kind, wasn’t it?” When Miles hummed in agreement, his chest tightening with phantom memories, Matt continued, “Were you… awake for it?”

“No… Oh. Oh, okay… I understand now.”

Matt leaned back, releasing his hand. “Good.”

“I don’t want to go digging through those files.” Miles crossed his arms, hiding his wrists. “And- and they knew how to knock me out. Really, really quickly. If the information got out-”

“Your bone is sticking out of your skin-”

“I know that, and I’m trying not to think about it. Maybe, maybe it would be better if I just did the whole bite-the-bullet thing. I can do that. No need to go digging through police files-”

“Absolutely not. You’re not going to do it unmedicated.” Matt interrupted, leaving no room for arguments.

Matt was entirely unfazed by the glare Miles gave him. “I can handle a little pain.”

“I can hear how fast your heart is racing from here.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like you brought up the worst time of my life or something,” Miles retorted, digging the heel of his hand into his head.

“It’s been like that since I came into the room.”

“Congrats on being able to read a heart monitor,” Miles spat.

There was a pause, and then Matt began to chuckle. And then laugh. Loud enough that Ganke began to stir. “What’s so funny?” Miles asked, the fury draining out of him. His cheeks warmed.

“I can’t read a heart monitor,” Matt explained, laughter petering out. “I can’t read anything. I’m blind. You lived at my place for a week.”

“What?”

“You crashed on my couch for a whole week. How did you not notice?”

“You’re blind?” Miles asked incredulously, his whole face and ears heating up.

“Yes, Miles. I even walked in here with my cane. What did you think that was?”

“I- I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” Miles grumbled. That would explain why he didn’t have a TV. Or a computer. Why he rarely looked Miles in the eye. He hadn’t had time to make assumptions - he was a bit preoccupied!

“Regardless of your… observational skills-”

“I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

“-you need this surgery. I know you’re afraid, but you can’t let this go untreated,” Matt doubled down. Miles refused to look back at him, stubbornly crossing his arms and sinking further into the cushions.

“It’s bad enough that Owl and Fisk know how to take me down. I don’t trust anyone here to keep that secret safe either,” Miles argued.

“Not even me?” Matt asked.

Miles deflated. “Okay, maybe you.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Matt nod. “I can help keep the formula out of paperwork. That will only delay that information getting out to the wider community, but I’m sure we can achieve at least that much.”

When Miles still didn’t reply, he added, “We could also get them to tape the surgery if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Miles finally looked at him. “You can do that?”

“Yep. It’s protected under HIPAA, so they can’t share it. You would be able to watch it back afterward.”

Miles took a moment to absorb that. If he was really honest with himself, he was more terrified that the doctors would do something nefarious, something sneaky that he would have no idea about until it was too late.

He still didn’t know what the scientists at the facility had done to him, even though he knew all the information was waiting for him in the very files that would help him now.

Chances were that he would never watch the videotape back, but if he needed it, it would be there.

“Okay,” Miles finally agreed.

It took hours for them to find the right file from the police precinct and then to make their own version of the formula, but eventually, they had everything ready.

Miles had caught a fitful nap while waiting, pure exhaustion barely enough to drag him down. When he woke, hungry and parched and antsy, he sent Ganke on a mission to collect his backpack. He didn’t need to see this next part, and Miles knew how hard it could be to wait around. Finding his backpack was a good distraction.

Matt followed Miles as far as he was allowed, and with a final reassuring squeeze of Miles’s hand, he was left behind. Miles stubbornly kept his composure all the way until they placed the mask over his face.

He attempted to flinch away at the familiar smell of bug spray, breath hitching with unshed tears, but it dragged him down into unconsciousness so quickly that it didn’t even matter.

When he finally stirred, the level of background pain had gone from a seven to a four on the pain scale. The room was coated in darkness despite the curtains being partially opened - it had to be night again.

Miles opened his eyes, looking around the room. Matt was sitting at attention, and absently he realized it was probably because he had heard him starting to stir.

“‘Time issit?” Miles slurred, taking his time to sit up.

“Around six. You’ve been asleep for a while,” Matt said.

“Oh. Did they fix it?” Miles asked, moving the sheets so he could see the cast on his leg. The black cast stretched from just below his knee down. 

“Your leg is fixed. The formula for your anesthetic was destroyed. Nothing amiss happened,” Matt reassured.

Miles nodded, readjusting his pillows and leaning back against them. “So, when can I get out of here?”

“You just woke up,” Matt pointed out, an eyebrow raising.

“Yep, so now I can leave. No point in staying here when I’m mending,” Miles argued.

Matt tipped his head back, sighing, as he concluded that Miles was going to be especially stubborn about this. There was no point in fighting him on it. “I’ll make arrangements.”

“Thanks.”

Matt got up and left the room just as Ganke ducked in, his hand raising halfway up for a wave before blinking, frowning, and awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. Miles had to ask how exactly he operated as Daredevil later…

“Hey Miles, good to see you awake. I got the backpack!” Ganke put it down on a clear spot on the bed, tipping it towards Miles. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get this! I went to the wrong rooftop, like, three times, and then I had someone recognize me, and they were asking how you were doing, and it was really awkward but- but I have it!”

Miles riffled through the bag, quickly pulling out his phone. He turned it on and grimaced at the 99+ symbol on almost every app. “Thank you, Ganke, really. I don’t think I would have been able to get this back otherwise.”

Ganke shrugged, taking up a seat next to the bed. “Least I could do. My Oma says you can stay at our place if you need to, by the way. She said something about cooking you something to eat -  so prepare for her to mother hen you.”

The sudden pain in his chest was jarring. Swallowing his grief, he gave Ganke a weak smile. “That’ll be great. Um, tell her I say hi.”

“She could hardly believe you were Spider-Man! She said you must be really brave-”

“Ganke,” Miles snapped, nails digging into the palm of his hand, “I don’t- don’t talk about that right now. Please.”

Saved by the bell, Matt opened the door and walked back in. “The doctors aren’t thrilled you’re leaving, but they’ve agreed. A friend of mine is coming to pick us up.”

“Oh, good. Thanks, Matt.” Miles took a deep breath, trying to shake off the near argument with Ganke. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, realizing a moment later he wouldn’t be able to get up anyway. “Am I going to need a wheelchair? That- that’s somehow worse.”

Miles spotted the faintly amused look Matt had on his face. “No, you’ll get crutches,” he reassured.

Ganke ran distraction by heading out the front entrance. The press had camped out front of the hospital - turns out both he and Fisk were in the same hospital. Seemed like they didn’t think either of them were in any state to be a threat to the other.

Meanwhile, having borrowed an oversized hoodie to at least attempt to hide, Miles took his time getting used to the crutches. Even with the natural balance of a spider, it was disorientating learning to use them.

With Matt by his side carrying Miles’s backpack, they headed out the back entrance to the waiting car.

“Hi, Miles!” the driver greeted. “Here, let me grab the door for you.”

“Uh, thanks.” Miles put the crutches in the backseat first before following them. He let himself slump into the seat, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. No cameras were watching them - Ganke had proven to be a great distraction.

As Matt got himself in, the driver turned around in his seat and extended a hand. “I’m Foggy, Matt’s partner in crime and best friend.”

Miles took the hand and shook it. Matt grumbled quietly, “There is no crime. That is the opposite of what we do.” Foggy gave Miles a conspiratorial wink.

Miles couldn’t help his small smile, some tension easing off his shoulders. Then he steeled himself. “Before we go to Matt’s, can we drop by my place? I know it's a bit- bit out of the way. It’s fine if we don’t.”

“Yeah, of course. You’ll need some clothes while you’re staying at Matt’s anyway,” Foggy agreed easily, turning the car on. Some light pop music came on the radio, relieving Miles of the need to fill the silence with awkward small talk.

As they pulled out of the hospital, Miles caught a glimpse of the crowd. It was… big. There was hardly any sidewalk left for normal people as everyone from journalists to Spider-Man fans crowded the entrance. In the middle of it all, he could barely see poor Ganke, who was hopelessly trying to maneuver through with microphones, cameras, and phones shoved at him.

If he had been forced to brave that crowd, he probably would have venom struck at least one person.

Miles absently watched the New York streets pass by, ignoring the quiet conversation happening in the front seat. He didn’t want to scroll on his phone, either, unwilling to sort through the mess of notifications waiting for him there. It was on his to-do list, but he had bigger issues to sort out.

Funerals were the main thing. Then wills. He would probably need to get himself emancipated - there wasn’t much point in some random extended auntie dragging him away from New York. If he took some sponsorships, he would probably be able to support himself well enough - he had endorsed baby powder that one time, and it had ended badly, but… if he was careful and did background research this time, he should get out of it without another apology video.

Then there was school to worry about. Would they even allow him back? He had already missed so much, and now he was an internationally known celebrity. Maybe they wouldn’t appreciate the distraction he would be. He didn’t want to be a distraction, but none of this had been his choice.

Peter had been right to tell him to cover his face. And he had. But one slip-up, and he was dealing with this mess.

Before he knew it, they were pulling up to his home. Digging around in his backpack, he grabbed the house key before shuffling out the door with the crutches. Flipping the hood up to obscure his face, Miles quietly said, “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” Matt reassured. “Call out if you need any help.”

No reporters were around to see him struggle with the crutches, only a few pedestrians that didn’t bother to investigate the kid on crutches. He shut the car door and hobbled to the front door.

The front steps took way too long as he was forced to take them one at a time. He bit down a frustrated noise, desperately wanting to reach the small bit of privacy the apartment block could provide.

Stupid foot. Stupid Ganke. Stupid Fisk.

When he made it inside, looking up the flight of stairs, he tipped his head back and sighed. There was no way he was making it up the normal way.

Hopping on one foot, he tucked the crutches under one arm and latched on to the wall. It was still awkward. He had to use his knee instead of his foot on his left leg, his right arm occupied with the crutches, but it was infinitely faster than any other method.

As he leaned the crutches against the door, having made it up the three flights without incident, his spider-sense gave a quiet hum at the same time as he heard a click.

Miles slowly looked back. It was one of their neighbors - Thomas, he thinks? He could never quite remember his name. All he knew was that he was at university studying business and that he was living at home while he did.

Thomas texted something into his phone, barely even glancing up at Miles. But Miles knew he had taken a picture of him. Like this. Crutches and foot in a cast and hanging off of the wall.

“What can I do to convince you to delete that?” Miles asked, voice wobbling despite his best effort. He set himself down on the ground, picking up the crutches.

Thomas finally looked up at him, eyes lit in manic delight. Miles swallowed, furiously stamping down memories of Fisk. “Nah, I’m keeping this.” He backed up, eyes going back down to his phone. “See you around!”

Miles watched him skip down the steps, heart in his throat. Another thing he was going to have to get used to - all the weird and embarrassing and humiliating things he did as Spider-Man were well documented, and now Miles Morales was going to get that same treatment. Great.

It was only then, when it was too late to do anything, that he realized he could have just smashed the phone. It might not have prevented it from getting around - the cloud was still a thing - but it would have given him the chance to make a bargain. Too late.

Shoving all of his emotions into a metaphorical box to deal with later, he put the key in the door. He had to get a move on - he was now on a timer before the press turned up.

Crutches loud in the otherwise silent home, Miles didn’t let himself look around as he made a beeline for his room. Just as he turned the corner, his spider-sense hummed a warning.

“Freeze!” someone shouted.

Miles flinched back, almost losing his balance as he ducked back around the corner. Something metallic glinted in the few rays of moonlight streaming in.

Relying purely on instinct, he dropped a crutch in favor of webbing the gun out of the intruder's hand and plastered it to the wall.

The silence stretched out. Still safely tucked around the corner, Miles took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart. He closed his eyes, hearing three- no, four, heartbeats in the living room. He was in no state for a fight, but he would if he had to.

“I don’t know who you are, but it’s a dick move to trespass,” Miles called out, proud of how little his voice shook.

Just as he was about to say something else, maybe threaten to call the police, he heard a small sob and a “Miles?

He knew that voice. Had known it all his life. But they were- he was sure they were- but they couldn’t be- this was such a cruel prank and- and-

“Mamá?” Miles breathed out, helpless to stop the tears gathering in his eyes.

There was a cautious step - one, two - moving around the couch.

He clenched his eyes shut, terrified to open them and discover it was all a lie. A fantasy formed from the last of the medication leaving his system. To wake up in bed and find that he had dreamed of what he wanted most of all.

He had watched them struggling in the sand.

He had watched the sand swallow them down.

He had wrung himself dry, agonizing over their final moments. Choking on the grief of watching them suffocate to death, helpless to stop it.

“Miles…” his Dad whispered, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. He helplessly reached up, grasping at the hand with both of his.

He finally opened his eyes, his vision completely blurred with tears. But even through the haze of unshed tears, he knew the person standing before him. Even if his chin had more beard fuzz than he was used to, his clothes wrinkled and stained.

“You’re- you’re alive?” Miles choked out, voice cracking on the last word.

Warm arms wrapped him up in a tight embrace, holding him together as all his tightly bottled-up and contained emotions shattered.

The flood of feelings had him as limp as a ragdoll, wailing his grief into the solid, living, breathing chest of his Dad.

And his Dad held him, letting them sink to the floor.

A moment later a hand was in his hair and a warm body was at his back, sandwiching him in.

They were alive.

He hadn’t killed them.

Chapter Text

Miles couldn’t bring himself to detangle from the mess of warm arms cocooning him, even as May finished recounting their week. A stray tear slipped down his cheek and Mamá wiped it away, her hand stilling on his cheek.

Meeting her eyes was hard. It shouldn’t be, but it was. He didn’t want her to see how scared he was, how vengeful he was, and how his cowardice led to their near deaths. But he met them anyway.

They were welcoming, and sad. He resisted the urge to pick apart why they were so sad, knowing that rabbit hole would only bring pain.

“I really thought you were dead,” he finally said, voice hushed and strained. He cleared his throat before he could spill how he could hardly live with himself, how he almost let himself fade away in a watery grave. Instead, he looked up at May. “Thank you,” he said, trying to spill every ounce of gratitude he felt into it.

May only gave him a kind smile. “Least I could do.”

Mamá gently ran her thumb down the scar on his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. “Does it hurt, mijo?”

“No,” he assured, “No, it’s all healed. I’m okay.”

“That malparido.”

Miles couldn’t help his startled laugh. “Mamá, woah, you really hate him, huh?”

Dad finally piped up, his hand still resting on Miles’s shoulder. “We both really do.”

Miles tried to hold the grin, but it wavered so much that he gave up. “Yeah, me too,” he whispered. His eyes strayed down to his hands, absently wringing them. All his injuries from fighting Kravinoff had scarred over, but he would forever go down as the villain who had revealed his identity. That felt… insulting, somehow.

Dad gently squeezed his shoulder, and Miles looked back up at him. His eyes searched Miles’s - what he found he didn’t know. “How did you survive? We thought,” he visibly watched him swallow, seemingly burying his own emotions. “May got a picture after we escaped. You looked…”

Miles's eyes stung. He didn’t want to picture himself in that moment. He didn’t want to dwell on how he got from a heap of limbs on the floor of Fisk’s office to drowning in the Hudson River. How they had thought him dead, opting to toss him in the salty water with only rope to immobilize him. Even though they knew he had super strength.

The mere fact that he was sitting in his home again, wrapped in their arms, was nothing short of a miracle. It all felt like a dream, something his dying brain had gifted him to guide him into a more peaceful death.

He didn't need to look down to know his hands were shaking, on the verge of camouflaging. Was this what shock felt like? It felt like he was in shock.

“Bad, I know,” Miles finally settled on, staring down at the ground like that would give him clarity. As he opened his mouth again, there was a short sharp knock at the door.

May had a baseball bat in her arms nearly instantaneously. Dad reached for his belt - clearly forgetting that his gun was currently wrapped in spider webs on the wall. Mamá held him tighter, and he swallowed the noise of discomfort from her accidentally pressing into his barely healed wounds.

“It’s ok,” Miles quickly reassured, having assessed his spider-sense. “It’s probably just Matt.”

“Quién?” Mamá asked.

“He- he helped me. He’s a friend of Spider-Man. He can come in,” Miles explained. But he made no move to detangle himself from the hug, a vain attempt to stay in the moment.

May raised an eyebrow at him, clearly recognizing that he wasn’t going to open the door, and went to the door herself. Miles peered past her to spot the familiar dress pants Matt wore.

“Hello, I’m Matt. It’s nice to meet you,” Matt introduced himself, not surprised in the slightest that Miles wasn’t the one answering the door. He really did need to ask about how he was blind but was still Daredevil. Another time.

May hustled him in, firmly shutting and locking the door behind him.

“I got sidetracked,” Miles said to Matt, who only gave him an amused smile.

May put the bat back down, satisfied for now that there wasn’t a threat. “We’ve met before. Good to see you’re still kicking.”

Matt inclined his head. There was history there, something Miles wasn’t privy to. They probably knew each other through Spider-Man, but he would be lying if he wasn’t a little surprised that May seemed to have already known his secret identity. “I try.”

Dad, ever formal, unwrapped himself from Miles and Mamá to get to his feet. It took a moment for him to stabilize, his left foot still in a cast, but he managed it. He offered his hand for a handshake, which Matt accepted. “Jefferson Morales,” Dad greeted. “Thank you for helping my son.”

“I couldn’t look the other way,” Matt explained. “Not when he was that hurt.”

That earned Miles a sharp look from Mamá before she very sweetly asked, “We were just asking Miles about how he was after we last saw him, but maybe you would know better?”

Miles tensed up, unable to voice his protest to the question. He shot Matt a Look, despite knowing it would have little effect on a blind man. In fact, Matt seemed only too happy to explain. “He was unconscious on the pier. I wasn’t able to stir him awake for two days. Blood loss and hypothermia are not a good mix. If he were anyone else, he likely wouldn’t have made it through the night.”

Miles winced at the wounded noise Mamá made, her eyes darting over him, scrutinizing his visible injuries once again. He couldn’t help but flinch under her expert gaze, the small movement betraying him with her still holding him.

Miles studied the floor as Matt continued. Matt’s voice grew more hesitant - like he was crossing a line. “I’m currently Guardian ad litem for Miles. He required urgent surgery last night, and no one was able to… contact you.” Everyone thought you were dead, went unsaid but was excruciatingly loud in the quiet that followed.

Dad straightened himself up. Nodded. “Thank you. I’m glad that someone is looking out for him.”

Miles couldn’t help the smug smile he got as Matt tensed. How he looked down at his feet like that would help him escape the utter sincerity from his Dad. “I wish I had been able to do more,” Matt said.

“Hate to interrupt the moment,” May called out from across the room, peering through the curtains down onto the street, “but we’ve got company.”

Miles sat up straighter, reaching for his crutches. Mamá was quick to help him to his feet, handing him his crutches before going to grab Dad’s as well.

“What kind?” Matt asked. His hand reached out to stabilize Miles when he faltered, and Miles bit down a frustrated sigh. Of all the things to have trouble with, crutches shouldn't be one of them. Yet here he was.

“I’ve spotted two news vans so far,” May observed, “and another one coming. Someone must have seen us.”

Stupid Thomas, Miles thought grumpily. Add him to the stupid list - foot, Fisk, Ganke, and now Thomas.

“I don’t think you should stay here,” Matt piped up. “It might be better to stay somewhere else until the excitement dies down. I would offer my place, but it only has room for one more person.”

Mamá nodded, determined. “We’ll stay in a hotel. I’ll grab some essentials - no tardaré.”

Miles hesitated for a long moment, caught between wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible and grabbing some things of his own to bring. Something he was certain of - the press would not deter easily. It might be a while before they could come back here.

“I’ll- I’ll be right back too,” Miles said, awkwardly pointing his thumb in the direction of his room.

Dad affectionately patted him on the head as he passed by, and Miles’s heart clenched. May didn’t miss the wince in his expression - if the assessing look she gave him was any indication.

Miles haphazardly grabbed a backpack and started shoving some clothes, a notebook, and a few art supplies in it. He sneezed as the small layer of dust coating everything got disturbed. As he paused at the vicinity of the door, backpack zipped shut with everything he needed, he couldn’t help the mournful pain resting in his chest at the sight of his room. With everything that had happened in the last few weeks, few months, he had barely spent any time living in this room.

The action figures on the shelves didn’t spark anything within him. The few pieces of clothes scattered around the place only made him feel tired. It hardly felt like his room anymore. It was like a snapshot in time, the echoes of a former self lingering in every corner. But it wasn’t… his. Not anymore.

Miles quietly shut the door behind him. Mamá popped out of the bathroom a moment later, holding all their toothbrushes in one hand and a hairbrush in the other before disappearing into the bedroom.

“There are only three seats spare in the car,” Matt informed the group when they were finally about to leave.

May nodded, putting a comforting hand on Miles’s shoulder. “I can stay behind. I know my way home.”

“But the news-” Miles tried to protest. She just gave him an amused look.

“I know a thing or two about dealing with them,” she reassured.

“Right.” She probably had to deal with an even bigger swarm after Peter’s death. Miles gave her a small smile. “Ok. I’ll try and swing by soon.”

“You had better.”

They settled on a hotel close to Matt’s that had decent enough reviews.

Miles zipped up his jacket and put the hood down as low as it could go before he slipped out of the car. He was glad New York was, well, New York, as no one so much as glanced at the odd group. 

A blind man and two guys using crutches. It was like the set-up of a bad joke.

Foggy was driving around the block until Matt was ready to go home too, something about not wanting to pay for parking. He was thankful that Matt had joined them, a balm on the nervous flood of energy he had from standing out in the open.

His first experience going out while his secret identity was known hadn’t gone well. But unlike last time, he was severely limited in his ability to run away. Miles hung back while Mamá and Dad went to the counter.

It was only because he was so on edge that he saw when the second receptionist spotted a glimpse of his face. He watched in real time as she connected the dots - the scar on his face, the small bruise on his cheek, the crutches, and then she looked at Mamá and Dad. Recognized them.

The receptionist got up and disappeared into the room behind the desk. She was in there for barely a minute when someone else peeked their head around the corner, looking around before settling on him. Then a third.

A hushed, quick conversation happened - too quiet for him to pick up on - and then one of them was pulling their phone out and typing rapidly.

Barely a minute later, he watched a bellboy discreetly trying to pass by him to get a look under his hood. The elevator opened, and two cleaners with aprons on, hair frazzled and a cleaners cart between them joined the group of people accumulating to get a look at him.

Miles tugged his hoodie down further, as useless as that was. He couldn’t help a frustrated sigh, itching to escape the crowd of interested people.

“Hi. It’s Miles, right?” One of them had approached him. It wasn’t enough to ogle him, apparently. He looked up to the sight of a girl about his age, hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Immediately her freckles stood out to him, covering her cheeks in intricate swirls. She looked to be about his age, maybe a year or two older. On her hotel uniform was a name badge - Lily.

Biting down a sigh, he gave her a nervous smile. “Sure.”

There was a pause like she expected him to say more. “Like, you’re Spider-Man, right?”

“Yep. The one and only,” he hoped the bitterness he felt didn’t seep into his words.

“Oh, okay, cool. So, um, can I get a selfie with you?” Lily asked hopefully.

Miles grit his teeth, biting down his first response of, seriously? When I look like I’ve run a marathon three times? Have tear tracks staining my face? But instead, with deliberate calm said, “No.” Her face fell, looking so crestfallen that he awkwardly amended, “Maybe later.”

“Oh, okay. That’s fine.” Lily’s eyes darted to the floor, back up to him, back to her friends. “Well, maybe you could… sign something? For me?”

For you to sell? “I guess.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Oh man, it’s so good to have you back. It’s so awesome that Spider-Man is my age!”

Lily scampered off behind the desk, the small crowd following her into the back. Miles bitterly swallowed, absently scuffing the floor with his good foot as he leaned his weight on the crutches.

Matt stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Miles’s shoulder. “This will happen more often now,” he said, open-ended.

Miles didn’t bother to look up from the floor. “Yeah, rest in peace, privacy,” he grumbled.

“They don’t mean any harm,” Matt said, lightly squeezing.

Miles deflated. “I know,” he whispered.

Matt hummed lightly, still resting his hand on Miles’s shoulder. Miles was quietly grateful for how it grounded him. “The whole city is behind you now, both sides of you. All you need to do is ask, and people will help. Remember that.”

“Except when they aren’t,” Miles grouched. The teenager on the train was ultimately why he was here, why he had gone into one of the hardest fights of his life with aching ribs. If he had been fully mended, maybe he wouldn’t be in a cast right now.

Matt didn’t get the chance to argue the point as Mamá and Dad approached, key cards in hand.

“Qué interesante,” Mamá said with a smile, passing Miles one of the keycards. “They upgraded us without us even having to ask!”

It felt like a slap in the face with how bad that startled him. He knew it shouldn’t, he knew he should feel grateful for the gift, but instead, it left him feeling… hollowed out. They would have never upgraded them if they had just been the Morales family.

Matt let go of his shoulder. He missed the warmth immediately. “I’ll be off, then. Keep in touch, Miles. I’ll always have space for you at mine if you need it.”

Miles hesitantly nodded, finally looking up from the keycard. “Thanks, Matt. I will.”

The hotel room was extravagant. They ended up with a balcony overlooking the city, with a living space, a small kitchenette, and two bedrooms. It was exactly what they needed for the next few days. It was more than what they had budgeted for.

After Miles had unpacked the meager belongings he had brought, including his damaged Spider-Man suit that he shoved into a random drawer out of sight, he curled up on the couch with his phone to do exactly what he had been dreading.

Sorting through his notifications.

He tentatively started with his Instagram.

Notifications were muted except for accounts that he followed back. Once that was done, he clicked on the last picture he posted. It was from six months ago, before his time at the facility. He had scribbled some sunflowers into his notebook, but the coloring was different for each flower. One was white, with a black stalk and pink and blue highlights. One was entirely black and white. Another was red and blue. Each was styled after his friends. He didn’t include himself, though - hadn’t wanted to.

Now he was glad about it. A quick scroll through the tens of thousands of comments confirmed that no one suspected why he had styled them that way. Not that that really mattered anymore, he remembered bitterly.

Instead, most of the comments were either wishing him well, telling him he was too young for the job, or thanking him for his work.

If he remembered correctly, before the reveal, the post had maybe three comments and twenty likes. Now, it had over a million likes and thirty thousand-odd comments to match.

Clicking into his messages, he was thankful for the message request system. It meant that Ganke still remained at the top of his messages, an unread message asking if he was still alive - timestamped for a few days ago.

In lieu of sending a message, Miles instead took a lazy picture of the room, adding the caption, ‘Safe @ Hotel.’

Waiting for a response, Miles couldn’t help but give in to his curiosity. Despite his better judgment, he googled his name.

Miles Morales: Who is the new Spider-Man?

Peter Parker vs Miles Morales: Who’s the better Spider-Man?

Miles Spider-Man: How did he beat Owl?

Fisk vs Miles Spider-Man: Timeline of Events

Miles mechanically swallowed, mouth dry. He didn’t know which headline to focus on first as a suffocating hollowness threatened to drag him into murky emotional territory.

His phone vibrated. Blinking himself out of his stupor, he forced himself to sit up straight and switch apps.

Surprisingly his text messages hadn’t been overrun, like every other way to contact him had. There were a limited number of messages to sort through, ranging from some news organizations, one advertising agency, two universities, Ganke, Mamá, Dad, and then the newest one from Detective Smith.

With no audience around, Miles let himself scowl without remorse.

Detective Smith was going to be just as difficult as every other time - more so now that all the cards were on the table. Miles didn’t have to conceal his secret identity anymore, sure, and that would make any conversation easier. But now he was going to get questioned about why he hadn’t been honest about his secret identity.

Fisk had copies of the interviews with Detective Smith, though. Even with all truths laid bare Miles had to be careful, had to account for who may overhear the conversation.

There was also the matter that he had beaten Fisk into a bloody pulp. That could definitely land him in legal hot water. He might have to bring back up to the conversation.

Before he could spiral down, movement caught his eye. Dad slowly made his way to the couch. Miles cleared some space on the other end of the couch for him as he sat down.

“Thanks, Miles,” his Dad said, giving him a warm smile. 

Miles shrugged, eyes flicking back to his phone. New notifications had popped up in the short few moments he hadn’t been looking at it, taunting him.

“I’m hungry,” his Dad declared, Miles’s head snapping up to look up at him. The obvious reply of ‘Hi hungry, I’m Miles,’ got stuck on his tongue, choked back.

Miles cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

“I was thinking we could order something in?”

Miles couldn’t help his surprise. His Dad, the man who hardly ever wanted to get takeaway because he said it ‘made his pores clog’. His Dad, who would rather replicate a dish at home than order it from somewhere else - even when one of them whined for it.

Dad wanted to order something because they were all exhausted, with nothing but a tiny kitchenette to make something and none of the patience to do so. It didn’t help that neither of them could stand up without crutches. Or that the thought of any of them more than a room away had them all twitchy.

“Sure, I guess. You can pick,” Miles conceded with a shrug.

“I don’t have my phone on me. Can I borrow yours? You have the Dine Door app on your phone, don’t you?” Dad asked, a knowing glint in his eye as Miles corrected him, “It’s DoorDine.”

Miles gave up his phone without argument. As it was, he was tempted to throw his phone out the window and be done with it. It wouldn’t help him avoid the problem of his newfound stardom, but it would keep it firmly out of sight, out of mind. At least for a few more days.

As Miles absently stared out the window, listening to the sounds of Dad scrolling through his phone, Dad broke the silence by asking, “How are you doing? You’ve… been through a lot these last few days.”

The flood of emotion was difficult to swallow. It was a stark mix of lingering grief, helpless anger, and the weight of newfound responsibilities that ached like a bruise. He itched to go swinging, but even without the cast on his leg, he knew it wouldn’t help him avoid what he was truly avoiding - people’s questions.

Miles scratched at an itch on his wrist, steadfastly looking forward. “I’m handling it.”

The look he got was piercing. Miles fidgeted under the weight of it but still didn’t look at his Dad. Then the look softened, and it felt like he could breathe again.

“You know,” his Dad began, with the ‘lecture’ voice. Miles inwardly sighed. “I’ve been having a lot of trouble with this too.”

That was not what he had expected him to say. Miles finally looked over at him, at how nervous his Dad seemed. Smaller. “I mean, my son, Spider-Man?” Miles couldn’t help how he twitched, and he knew it didn’t go unnoticed. “I’ve talked to you without knowing it for, what, the past year? I’ve admitted so much to you.”

Miles swallowed, eyes dropping back to his hands. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“That’s-” his Dad took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is, is that I didn’t know about such a big aspect of your life. I’m just sorry that I didn’t know about it until- well-”

“Until I had a panic attack,” Miles grumbled. He watched his Dad grimace from the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been how he had wanted to reveal his identity to them, but the chances of him revealing his identity any other way… he probably would have pushed it back time after time until a crisis forced his hand.

“I guess I just don’t… understand,” his Dad finally said, passing Miles’s phone back to him. Miles took it, absently fiddling with the case. “I don’t understand why you’re… Spider-Man. Why you do it. I know how it all happened, but not why.”

Miles hummed lightly. Nowadays, even he couldn’t really pin down why he did it. He wouldn’t have been kidnapped, or blackmailed, wouldn’t have nearly lost everyone he loved, if he wasn’t Spider-Man.

Why he kept on putting on the mask when every day it just felt like a heavier cross to bear. Every day he went out knowing it could be the last time, the possibility of one fight, one gunshot, one punch ending it all. It wouldn’t be the first time New York had been left without a Spider-Man.

Late at night, he sometimes wondered if the city would mourn him just the same as Peter.

“I have… these powers,” Miles began haltingly, “and I see these villains. These- people that even the police can’t stop. They don’t care who they hurt. But I can stop them. I can stop people from getting hurt or killed. It would be… selfish not to.”

The silence stretched out, with only the background noise of the city filling it. Miles itched at his wrist and took a deep breath. “I want to fill his shoes. I want to prove I’m… something more. I want to help people. I do help people. Even if I haven’t really helped anyone lately.”

At that, his Dad put a hand on his shoulder, lightly squeezing. It got Miles to look up at him. “You have helped people, Miles. You were a one-man army against Owl. But- I don’t approve of your methods. You should have tipped the police off about it.”

Miles’s thoughts flashed to the man at the facility. The one he hadn’t helped, the one he should have. “Maybe,” he whispered noncommittally. “It was actually someone at the police station who tipped me off, so. They already knew about it.”

His Dad frowned but seemed to shelve that line of questioning for another day. He moved the hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, a reassuring weight to ground him. Miles leaned back against it, eyes closing.

“There’s a saying at the police station,” his Dad started, “I’m sure you’ve probably heard of it before. ‘If you help someone, you help everyone.’”

Miles nodded. It made sense.

“Sometimes… that person is you.”

Miles opened his eyes at that. When he glanced at Dad, his eyes were distant. Lost in his own line of thought.

“I’ve asked to take some leave. A couple of weeks. Even from office work.” Dad’s thumb was absently moving back and forth across Miles’s exposed skin, soothing. “I thought I lost you, too. I can’t help other people when I’m not okay.”

Miles bit his lip, smothering the wave of emotion threatening to pull him under. “Yeah, I know, Dad,” he whispered.

His Dad huffed. It was almost a laugh, tinged with disbelief. His hand moved into his hair. “We both thought we lost each other because of the choices we made. I know you have superpowers. I know you can lift a truck and heal from gruesome wounds. You’ve been so strong. I just want to be strong for you.”

Miles's chin quivered, yet his eyes remained dry. His head tilted forward, and he let Dad bring him in close for a hug.

There was a pressure in his chest, a grief he couldn’t seem to suppress. Even with his Dad’s arms around him, even hearing his heartbeat drumming along to a steady beat, he couldn’t quite settle into his arms. There was an itch in him that he couldn't scratch, that he couldn't figure out how to scratch.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. If this was how he could help someone, being wrapped in a warm embrace, that was something he could do.

The bath he had that evening was rejuvenating. The first true wash he had in days, as all he had managed before was a quick washcloth. Cast carefully protected in a plastic wrap, he enjoyed the steaming water that washed away the clinging grime from the worst days of his life.

It was a chance to evaluate his body, to take in what scars he had. They would take months or years to fade away if they ever would. The latest batch of scars littered him from head to toe - from the claw marks in his thigh to the prominent scar cutting through his eyebrow and into his hairline.

Maybe it was a good thing that his identity had been revealed - Kravinoff had made it hard to disguise his identity.

When he stepped out of the bath, the water now lukewarm, edging on cold, the bruises in the mirror caught his eyes. They covered his chest and stretched up to wrap around his throat. Two sets of fingerprints obscured each other, overlapping. They were tender to the touch, but they would fade too.

But how he kept on catching his own eye accidentally - how they whispered ‘murderer,’ how they whispered ‘bloodthirsty-’ that would not fade.

So he turned away from the accusation in his own eyes. And felt like a coward.

The cold early-morning air flowed past him as he sat on the balcony's railing. The lingering claws of a nightmare he refused to remember dug into his throat, drawing blood that only he could see in his mind's eye.

His webshooters glinted in the dark, for once not covered by sleeves. Even in the safety of being so many stories high, he couldn’t summon the strength to go without them.

Eyes closed, he heard the sound of the slider door opening and shutting, soft footsteps letting him know his Mamá had joined him.

She joined him at the railing, leaning against it. When he finally opened his eyes and glanced across, Mamá had a cup of tea in hand - the cheap hotel tea bag still seeping into the steaming water.

As the rising sun slowly draped them in light, he could see her assessing the scars he hadn’t attempted to hide for once. But there was no pity. There was only a quiet question in them, wondering how each of them happened and if they still hurt him.

Miles fiddled with the edge of his webshooter, wiping away a spot of grime on the otherwise clean surface. “You don’t normally drink tea,” he said quietly.

Mamá hummed lightly, and he saw a small smile spread on her face. “No, I don’t normally drink tea,” she agreed.

Miles glanced at her, an eyebrow raising. She sipped at her tea to hide how her grin grew. Miles saw it anyway. “I feel like I’m missing something,” he finally admitted.

Mamá looked down at the street below, tilted her head to the side, then, with a smile, said, “I think it’s about time you know.”

“Know what?”

Mamá locked eyes with him. “You’re going to be a big brother.”

He almost tipped off of the railing in shock, grabbing it with a hand to stabilize himself. That was the fourth heartbeat he had heard! The reveal that they were alive had drawn all his attention away from investigating that small detail, the euphoria tunnel visioning him in on that moment. But it made sense.

He took a moment to listen, tuning out the endless buzz of activity from New York, and sure enough- there it was. A second heartbeat.

“I’m going to be a big brother…” he whispered.

Mamá took another sip of the tea, letting him process the revelation.

“Do… Do you know the gender?” Miles asked after a long moment.

“No. We want to wait to find out.”

“Have you picked out a name?”

Mamá shook her head. “Still deciding.”

“... can I help pick out a name?” He asked quietly. Mamá smiled and nodded.

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs, but for once, it wasn’t in a bad way. He forced himself to take a deep breath, mulling over the news. He was going to be a big brother. His thoughts strayed to the little girl on the train, the one who had figured out he was Spider-Man.

Her eyes had lit up with delight, in wonder at the sight of him. Despite the bruise on his cheek and the scarred-over slash. She had looked past all of that and just saw an idol.

A want settled in his chest. He wanted to put that look in his little sibling's eyes. He wanted to prove himself worthy of that look. As the sun finally peeked over the skyscrapers, he bound himself to that want, making it a promise.

There were still questions they would need to work through. Would he have to share a room with them, or would they finally clean up the study and convert that instead? How would they deal with the inevitable attention from the public since Miles was a celebrity now? How would they keep them safe? Before he could ask, he was distracted by the sliding door opening with a squeak.

Miles glanced back, it was Dad. With a cup of coffee in hand and his shirt still wrinkled from sleep, he leaned on the railing to Miles’s right. Dad put a comforting hand on Miles’s left knee, sipping from his cup with the other hand.

Miles couldn’t help but go back to absently fiddling with a webshooter. “Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Miles asked with more bravado than he felt.

Mamá gently took his right arm, fingers interlocked with his. It eliminated his fidgeting. “Not if you’re not ready.”

Miles shrugged, swallowing nervously. The conversation wouldn’t get any easier with time. “I still want to be Spider-Man,” he started. He met her eyes as he continued. “I have all this power and I know the good it can do… does,” he corrected, thoughts straying to the nurse, the man, and the mom on the subway.

Tragedies he had prevented by putting on the suit and going out to look for trouble. Even if that searching had just led here, to the aftermath of the near tragedy in their own lives. Where he had left them to survive on their own, with only May’s years of experience keeping them alive.

“And I came home again. I promised you that,” Miles reminded them.

“You have done a lot of good,” Dad agreed easily. “But you cause a lot of damage too.”

Miles opened his mouth, ready to argue the point, but Dad beat him to the chase. “Not just property damage, either. You make investigations hard when evidence gets destroyed or tampered with. Evidence collected by you isn’t admissible. It puts up a lot more roadblocks for us putting a crook away at all.”

Miles slumped a little, reluctantly agreeing with a small nod. “I know. I’ll… do my best to call in the professionals to collect evidence. I’ll do my… thing and leave the rest to you guys.”

Dad settled back down, satisfied.

Mamá straightened up. “I worry about what fame will do to you.”

Miles couldn’t stop himself from scowling - not that he tried very hard. “I never wanted it. Not like this.”

Mamá squeezed his hand, drawing him out of his memories. Miles reluctantly met her eyes. “I worry that you will hurt yourself trying to fulfill people’s expectations, not that you will abuse it.”

That silenced him. He had always been trying to live up to or beat people’s expectations. At school. As Spider-Man. None of the other spider people had thought he could take the leap of faith and destroy the collider. Peter had been willing to die staying behind because none of them believed he could do it. But he had done it, for himself and to help them.

His Spider-Man suit was collecting dust in a drawer. He could take it out and wash it, repair it from the fight with Sandman and Fisk. But he hadn’t. He wanted to blame it on the cast preventing him from patrolling...

But, if he was honest with himself, it was because he didn’t want to face the world. He didn’t want to face a world that knew his face, that would want to see it while he was trying to escape his life as Miles. There would be no escape, not anymore.

There were expectations. People expected him to be Spider-Man. People expected him to save the day. As Spider-Man, he could provide that. But now people expected that from Miles too.

There were expectations to prove that he was okay, too. That he was alive and well. The last that anyone had seen of Spider-Man, of him, was being supported by Ganke - limping away from the fight.

A small part of him worried that if he couldn’t prove he was okay, people would come looking for him. People who wanted to hurt him. People who wanted to use his exposed vulnerabilities against him.

A warm hand cupped his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. Mamá had precariously put her cup down on the ledge to free her other hand. “We’ll figure it out as we go,” she assured. “But please, talk to us. No more secrets.”

How many nights had he agonized over his secret identity? Where he had longed to spill the secret to more than just Ganke. Ganke was his best friend, but often he didn’t understand. Couldn’t. Ganke still clung to the image of Spider-Man, and it often clouded him against reality. He had had the other Spider-People once, but they were never coming back again.

How many nights had he longed to reveal all that he had gone through? Those nights after an especially bad fight, stitching himself back together with shaking hands, had he longed for his Mamá’s sturdy support? Those days when he longed for her knowledge when he had bought a makeup kit to cover especially bad bruises and had wanted to ask her to help him put it on?

How many days had he ached for his Dad? Even as he stood in front of him, desperately trying to mask his voice and conceal his identity for another day. Those days when he looked at the news and saw that a crook had gotten out of jail because of a mistake he made? Where he knew if he just asked Dad, he would tell him how to avoid making those same mistakes.

And he thought about the past week. Where he had grieved over lost chances. When he had cried over the loss of knowledge, the loss of support he would never get to experience because they were dead.

How he had torn himself to shreds over his cowardice. That he had taken the deal with Fisk to protect them, and if they had just known he was Spider-Man, he wouldn’t have made that deal. That he could have worked something out with them.

Instead, he played into Fisk’s hand. Had served the defeated remains of Owl to Fisk, knowing that Owl would die. There was no doubt in his mind. Owl was dead. Probably somewhere in the Hudson, not far from where Fisk had tried to dump him too.

Sure, he had gotten revenge against Owl. Owl had deserved what he had coming. But he wasn’t the only one who had their life changed because of Owl. There were multiple facilities full of people like him, people with powers that Owl had wanted to exploit. None of them would get justice. None of them would know what Miles had done. Because if he told anyone, he would be admitting to a crime.

And as he looked at the morning sunshine streaming over New York City, he thought about how there were still secrets he couldn’t help but lock away.

He couldn’t tell them about how he had tried to kill Fisk. Had been determined to kill him, even if that meant signing his own death warrant.

“Okay. I’ll try,” Miles finally promised, unable to look either of them in the eye. There were some sins he couldn’t speak aloud. To speak them would make them real. It would mean admitting that he could descend into that kind of person again.

He never wanted to be that person again.

The next day he posted on Instagram. The picture was completely black. In the caption, he asked for privacy while he got used to having his secret identity known. That he was okay. That he would be back in the suit soon.

His skin crawled even as he posted it. None of the caption was a lie, but he felt like a liar anyway. Like he was a performer, putting on a mask for an audience, playing the part of a character that reflected none of who he truly was.

The next few days passed in a blur. They didn’t do much. Books, bad movies, and food consumed the time. All of them were more or less confined to the hotel room. The risk of someone recognizing them and needing to relocate kept the excursions outside of their room brief.

Miles gave up on using the crutches. Walking along the ceiling quickly became the norm, to the point that Dad didn’t even glance up to watch anymore. That, more than anything, seemed to desensitize them to him being Spider-Man.

Going to the hospital for their one-week checkup was the most nerve-wracking thing they did.

From ordering a taxi, sneaking down into the lobby, having to sign something for the taxi driver so he wouldn’t blab to anyone (the glare the taxi driver had gotten from both Mamá and Dad hadn’t been enough to deter him. Mamá vowed she would make a complaint), to being pulled into a separate waiting area so that they wouldn’t get swarmed - Miles was utterly exhausted by the time they were brought out back.

Dad and Mamá had split off with one nurse while he had been brought back with a different nurse, her face familiar from his last stay.

“Wow,” the nurse - Rebecca - said, handing Miles a picture of the X-Ray. “If all my patients healed as quickly as you did, I would hardly even have a job!”

Miles shrugged, looking over the X-ray. He could faintly see where the bone was just that little bit thicker, but otherwise, he wouldn’t have known where it had cracked without the one from the week prior right beside it.

He had healed much quicker than he had after the facility. It had taken more than a month for his wrist to heal then. Malnourishment had probably played a big role in that - there hadn’t been enough energy for his body to do anything other than keep him alive.

This time, he had months' worth of nourishment behind him. It was good that he did, too, with the laundry list of injuries he had acquired from the fights with Kravinoff, Owl, Sandman, and Fisk.

“Yeah, I guess,” he eventually replied. “So the cast is coming off today?”

“Sure is!”

Miles watched her bustle around the small office space, bringing out the saw. “So…” he started, reading one of the posters on the wall instead of looking her in the eye, “Do you know much about, I don’t know, how other… patients… are doing?”

“Are you asking me to violate HIPAA?” Rebecca asked, her voice filled with mirth.

“Wha- no! No. Just, you know, you must hear news about patients that… aren’t yours?” Miles tried but deflated when she gave him a knowing look.

“I might have heard some things about a certain patient,” Rebecca conceded, propping up Miles’s casted leg. “Something about how he’s going to survive, but that was up in the air for a while. He’s going to need extensive physiotherapy.”

Miles felt like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if it was the relief that he was alive or that Fisk wouldn’t pose a threat to him anytime soon. His morals felt particularly flexible nowadays.

“Oh,” he mumbled. Rebecca graciously didn’t push the subject further, allowing him time to absorb the news.

The meeting with the school counselor and principal was just as awkward as Miles imagined it would be.

“Thank you for all the good work you do!” The principal greeted Miles, the handshake firm - bordering on too tight.

Miles gritted his teeth in the resemblance of a smile. “Sure.”

They all sat down, the Principal and Counselor on one side of the desk, Miles sandwiched between Mamá and Dad on the other.

“So, normally, you would have been expelled by now,” the principal began, ignoring how Miles went rigid in his seat, resisting the urge to grip onto the chair’s handrest - and probably crack it. He didn’t miss the immediate tension from either Mamá or Dad either.

“You really have missed a lot of school this semester! Over half of all days, not to mention when you’ve left early. I’m sure you can understand at an elite school like this we only want the most dedicated of students to attend,” she continued, thumbing through a folder.

Mamá put a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward, “And he is very dedicated!”

The counselor finally spoke up, “Sure, his grades have always been excellent. Almost straight A’s on what he has handed in.”

“Because of that,” the principal assured, “we’re happy to have Miles here, and we’ll continue to supply the scholarship. We’re also happy to modify his assignments and schedule as needed when your… other job gets in the way.”

Miles slowly let himself relax. Idly he wondered if the real reason they were offering all this was because of the potential public backlash.

“Great, yep, we can work with that,” Dad said cheerfully.

“We can sort out the finer details later,” the principal said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Actually, we were wondering if Miles would like to help with some of our promotional stuff?”

Miles couldn’t hide how he winced at that, eyes going down to his lap, wringing his hands. Mamá and Dad tensed up. It was enough of a reaction that the principal quickly amended, “Oh, but we can revisit that later!”

The conversation continued, but Miles could hardly pay attention. It wasn’t like he hadn’t used Spider-Man as a promotional tool before - he had, like, once, with baby powder. He’d even considered it as a means to support himself if his parents really were… but it felt different for someone to request him specifically.

They left with a plan for how he could catch up and backup plans for when Spider-Man inevitably interfered with school. They excused him from the rest of the semester, with the understanding that he would need a break and time to heal before participating in normal school again. He was glad that the school took it in stride that he was Spider-Man, but he couldn’t help the waves of trepidation that continued to wash over him.

He didn’t miss the curious eyes of other students that followed him as they left. It made him itch to put his hoodie up, to hide, but he decided against it. Everyone would eventually get over him being Spider-Man, and it wouldn’t help him to hide until then.

Miles met Matt at the police station. It had taken a bit of negotiation for Mamá and Dad to let him go alone, but he had reassured them that he would be fine. With his leg out of a cast, he decided to swing over instead of going through the hassle of cars.

Yet he couldn’t get himself to put on his Spider-Man suit, no matter how long he stared at it that morning. Even the thought of putting on his mask made him feel like there was a weight on his chest, limiting every breath he took. He stuffed it back in the drawer.

To compensate for the lack of suit, he kept to rooftops, camouflaging for those moments where he was forced out into the open.

Matt was already waiting outside the station by the time Miles made it.

“Hey Matt, thanks for coming,” Miles greeted, straightening his shirt. “I know how busy you must be-”

“It’s fine, Miles. I’m happy to help you how I can,” Matt interrupted.

“Right, great, sure. Time to see what they want to charge me with,” Miles sighed, fiddling with the strap of his webshooter so he could ease the pressure in his wrists by pressing into the muscles.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Matt reassured.

Miles restlessly twisted at the sleeves of his hoodie, pulling them down. “But - won't there be charges? From, you know, me... attacking Fisk?"

“Nope,” Matt said breezily. “I, uh, talked to the DA. Don't worry about it, really."

Miles squinted at him, but Matt had his innocent-est expression on, and at this point, Miles was too tired to argue. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

“So… I’m just going to be making some statements about the facility? Including the ones I destroyed as Spider-Man?” Miles clarified.

“Yep.”

Miles stared at him a moment longer, but Matt didn’t volunteer anything else. “Alright…” Miles said slowly. “Cool. Let’s… head inside then, I guess.”

All told the meeting with the Detective went well, even if it was exhausting. Whatever Matt had done, it worked well to keep Smith from being a total asshole.

Still camouflaged, Miles landed on the edge of the hotel railing. He took his hood down as he approached the door, itching for a shower.

Mamá and Dad were watching TV on the couch, backs turned to him. When he glanced up to see what they were watching, it stopped him from opening the sliding door. Frozen in place.

It was a news anchor, with a still image of himself from the Fisk fight. Fisk was in the foreground, his shoulder taking up a third of the picture. He was in the background, but the focus was on him. He had his arms up placatingly, capturing the moment he had pleaded for Ganke’s life.

A phantom weight constricted around his throat, every breath aching as he inhaled. His fingertips tingled, a side effect of them turning invisible without him consciously wanting it.

 He dropped his eyes to the ground, taking several slow and deep breaths before he forced his body to move. He went to open the sliding door but froze again as he heard his Dad’s voice.

“-martial arts would probably help him,” he heard him say.

Rio hummed, “I guess.”

Miles blinked a stray tear out of his eye, stepping back from the door. He turned to face the New York skyline, forcing himself to slowly and methodically breathe in and out.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, breathing against the weight of phantom memories before he was composed enough to walk inside. 

There’s a weight wrapped around his chest, cold. Digging into his skin. It’s chains, pinning his arms to his side and forcing him into submission. They’re relentless, squeezing all the breath out of his lungs. It’s a pressure he can’t escape no matter how hard he struggles, how hard he grits his teeth and strains against the metal.

Bits of sand dig into his legs from where he’s kneeling, and when he looks up, there's Sandman. He’s grinning at Miles with a manic look, knowing the power he yields over him with his Mamá and Dad surrounded on all sides.

Mamá and Dad are reaching out for him, pleading for help. He struggles, he does, manages to get an arm free, reaching for them. His vision whites out in pain as a sword is driven through it, pinning his hand to the ground.

Fisk is in front of him, holding Owl out in front of him. Choking him. Killing him.

“Thanks for the help, Miles. His head will go great on my mantelpiece,” Fisk says, his grip on Owl tightening. Owl tries desperately to escape, but it's useless. He’s trapped like a fly in a spider's web, exhausting himself in his trouble to escape. Just like he is.

Just as his head snaps, Miles is distracted by water flowing in around him. His desperation grows, even as knows deep down there's no escape. He can’t escape, not with his arms and legs pinned down.

He’s going to drown. He’s going to drown. He’s-

Waking up drenched in sweat. 

He was helplessly disorientated as he flailed with the sheets, desperately trying to escape from their confines. Miles fell to the floor with a thump, the sheets ripping like paper between his clenched fists.

Scrambling to his feet, he was hardly thinking as he dug his suit out from the drawer, pulling it on in practiced motions. He didn’t leave a note nor grab his phone, sure that he would crush anything in his shaky hands.

The night sky greeted him in its cold embrace as he jumped off the balcony. Already he regretted going out as stray bits of sand rubbed against his skin - he hadn't washed his suit since the fight. Hadn’t wanted to look at his suit that had been repaired with the wrong fabrics, that was still scorch marked from Fisk’s stupid taser and-

He narrowly avoided smacking into a fire escape, twisting unnaturally to scrape past without injury. The next swing went low, his feet almost dragging across the pavement. He thwipped a web at the corner of a building, jerking himself up high before diving into his next swing.

It was sloppy, it was uncoordinated, but the urge to keep running - to get rid of the nervous energy that itched at his skin - kept him moving.

The webshooter wasn’t even attached properly, loose enough to rub against his wrist, but he didn’t want to stop. Even as it rubbed his skin raw underneath, though it was a relief with the tightness in his wrists, the pain distracting him from the unending pressure and-

His spider-sense warned him before he spotted the criminal. It was some guy trying to break into the back of a convenience store. They had a gun in one hand and a crowbar in the other that they were using to try and pry the door open.

It was mindless, he was running on fumes and instinct as he redirected towards them.

They saw him too.

“Spider-Man! Oh shit-!”

Bullets littered the air. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. It was the most normal patrol in the world, and yet-

Miles gasped with pain, landing short of the robber. He was barely even paying attention to their babbling. Gingerly he touched the wound under his armpit, wedged between his third and fourth rib. Too close to his heart. When he brought his hand out into the light, there was scarlet red blood dripping onto the pavement.

“- I just shot Spider-Man, oh my god. I just shot a kid. No, no, no, I didn’t mean to-”

He couldn’t stop looking at the blood. It was like he was in a trance, one he couldn’t escape from. The dark red of his blood stained the vibrant red. His whole world was narrowed in on how it drip, drip, dripped onto the pavement.

“-Look, I’m sorry, Miles, do you need an ambulance?”

Snapped out of it, he thwipped a web at the gun, yanking it out of the robber's hand. With a roundhouse kick to the chest, the robber collapsed against a nearby wall, webbed securely in place.

Miles patted down his pocket, finding the robber's phone, and dialed nine-one-one. He didn’t trust himself to speak, couldn’t, all his words locked in his throat, and so he just put the phone back. They would eventually come to investigate.

It was the worst break-and-enter he had ever stopped. Or at least in the top five, the first few coming from the early days of donning the mask. It was embarrassing.

Clutching his side, he took a running start, jumping high into his first swing. He didn’t know where he was going, his vision half blurred by pain and tears that refused to fall. Every gasping breath he took in hurt, didn’t satiate the burning need for air.

The dazzling lights of New York were replaced by the dingy tracks of the subway, were replaced by the fading light bulb hanging in a familiar room.

There was where he collapsed, pulling his mask off and clutching at his chest. Breathed in the damp air of a forgotten corner of New York where memories covered the walls.

Memories of Gwen, of Peter, Noir, Porker, Peni, and expectations. They were looking down at him, knowing, judging.

He broke.

Sobs clawed their way out of his throat, raw and brutal. He was doubled over, clutching at himself as he tried to hold on to anything.

He wanted to tear the costume off of himself piece by piece, wanted to rip it to shreds. But their eyes lingered, scorned him, scolding him for wanting to rid himself of their legacy, of their memory.

They evaluate him, how he couldn’t even face a lowly robber. And reprimand him for his failure.

How can you be Spider-Man? they said, digging into his flesh with every word. How can you be Spider-Man when you can’t hold yourself together? How can you be Spider-Man when you’re just as bad as the people you stop, a murderer just like them?

How can you be Spider-Man when you act in vengeance? It burned at him, shredded at him, that he acted in revenge with nothing to avenge. They were alive, they were living and breathing, and he had yearned so desperately for that, but with that wish fulfilled, his eyes still searched for the moment it all ended. His mind raced with possibilities, of all the ways they could die, to the point he couldn’t even enjoy the present.

He yearned for the wisdom of Peter, the comfort of Gwen, and their understanding. Desperate to see them again, to fall to his knees and beg for their help. Beg them to tell him how to face a world that watched him, how he stumbled and fell and broke under pressure. Begged them to save him.

Begged them to be someone he didn’t have to worry about. People he didn’t have to protect when things went bad, who could protect themselves in battle and not become a hostage to be used against him. To be used as blackmail.

There was blood staining his hand, seeping into the fabric of his mask and burrowing into his flesh and bones. It was his blood. It was Owl’s. It was the nameless man from the facility he would never save, not even in his dreams.

His fault, his fault, all his fault.

Miles leaned into the warmth-sapping wall, curling in on himself. The bullet graze begged for attention, begged to be treated, but the pain was the only thing tethering him to reality.

It was what he deserved.

Chapter Text

Drip, drip, drip.

Miles reluctantly began to wake up, his eyes crusted over and his whole body cold. He shivered and curled up tighter. He didn’t want to move, but time trudged on despite his protests. So, he stayed awake, uncomfortable but reluctant to move. In stasis, unwilling and unable to process time moving forward.

The mural caught his eye when he finally sat up, his whole body protesting the movement. His wrists ached, protesting the hours upon hours of the webshooters constantly rubbing. With stiff fingers, he unclipped them, setting them aside close by. Close enough that even if he was snuck up on, he could swiftly protect himself.

All the spider-people looked down at him still, but with fresh eyes, he knew they weren’t judging him. Not really. They weren’t here to judge him. They never would be.

Swallowing, mouth dry, he forced himself to look away. He focused instead on assessing his body. It was almost second nature, at this point, to do a sweep of his body and evaluate his injuries.

There was crusted blood all down his left side from the bullet grazing him, but when he tentatively touched it there was no open wound. The scab was still raised and tender to the touch, but that would pass. His suit was damaged again, the frayed edges of the costume revealing the healed skin. Just another tear to repair. Physically, he was whole again.

Even knowing that he was fine, that he was okay, and that he could leave, he was rooted to the spot. The mural was the closest he would ever get to seeing his friends, the people who would truly understand him. The people who could help him piece together the shattered parts of himself. He didn’t want to leave their presence yet.

How could he put together the pieces of himself alone? The part that so desperately wanted to kill Fisk in revenge, who willingly let someone die because they had hurt him, who watched his parents drown in sand while on his knees begging for their lives… with the softer parts of himself? The part that spray-painted murals of his friends and family, who inspired little girls like Katie, who left stickers where only he could find them… and who would be a big brother?

The pieces are scattered and jagged and try as he might, he didn’t think they would ever fit together again. Instead, as he stared at the outline of a person in expectations, he tried to put together something resembling human - resembling okay. He couldn’t face the world without the mask ready for his performance.

There was a sound from the entrance. Before he had even fully registered what it was, he shot a web in its direction.

“Everyone’s looking for you.”

It was Daredevil. He didn’t even have the energy to be surprised. Daredevil’s upper arm and shoulder were pinned to the wall by the web. Miles looked away, propping his knees up so he could hug them.

He heard Daredevil wrench himself out, debris scattering along the ground, and was at least mildly surprised by that. Miles had still yet to ask him about how he was Daredevil, nor did he know what powers he had. He might have super strength if he was able to get out of the webs.

“They’re worried about you,” Daredevil said, standing a few feet away. Hovering.

“I know,” Miles whispered, voice choked and small. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you hurt?”

Miles slumped into the wall, studying a rock on the floor instead of looking up at Daredevil. “No. It’s healed. I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Miles folded like a house of cards. “Yeah. I’m not.”

Daredevil, seemingly satisfied by Miles’s admission, walked over and sat to Miles’s left. Without hesitation Daredevil took off the cowl, setting his helmet to the side, baring his face.

Miles studied his expression for a moment, trying to read him. There was no pity, no disgust, just patience. Miles let himself relax a bit more, shoulders dropping from where they had been around his neck.

Smashedpasta's Artwork

“Do you want to talk about it?” Matt prompted after a long moment.

Miles's immediate instinct was to say no, to poorly attempt to pull a mask on, but with the eyes of his friends, his peers, watching him, he couldn’t muster the will to. Even so, it took a few minutes to sort through his swirling thoughts enough to produce the right words. 

“I tried to kill Fisk.”

The silence stretched out as Matt waited for him to elaborate. It loosened his tongue. “I… wanted him dead. Spider-Man isn’t meant to- to want that. To do that. Even now, I’m happy that he’s so hurt. That I beat him up so badly he’ll need physiotherapy.”

Miles wrapped his hands around his knees, drawing them in closer. “I’m supposed to- to figure out their plans and fight them and then hand them over to the police. But I wasn’t trying to do that. I was trying to kill him. I wanted to kill Sandman too, but he’s not exactly- well, killable. I got Owl killed.”

Matt made an encouraging noise for him to continue. Miles curled up tighter, reluctant to continue, but Matt patiently waited him out. He knew it was a dumb psychological trick to get people talking, and he knew he could wait and that eventually Matt might speak, but it was like Matt had opened the floodgates. In the quiet ambiance of the underground, with only the soft drip, drip, drip, of pipes, it unlocked his voice and allowed him to speak about everything that had been weighing on him.

Miles’s eyes lingered on the mural of his friends. Studied Gwen. Studied Peter B. “I became Spider-Man because I promised Peter that I would blow up the collider. He promised to show me the ropes.” Every word tumbled out faster and faster. “But he died and I never got that, and I just wish I had someone to- I don’t know. Tell me how to do this. I didn’t even know him - all I know is the shadow he left. And- and I’m letting him down. I haven’t even been doing regular patrols for months because I’ve been so caught up in my own stuff.”

And there it was. The bottled-up thoughts and emotions had been poured out to a willing ear. It left Miles exhausted and raw, but lighter than he had been in months.

He glanced at Matt from his peripheral vision. Matt was looking in the general direction of the mural, but Matt couldn’t see all the designs. It was just a wall for him.

“I knew him,” Matt finally said. He swallowed, his mouth open but he didn’t speak for a beat too long. Miles turned his head, looking at Matt. He was frowning, forehead creased into well-worn lines. “We both started around the same time. I didn’t see him very often. He was in Queens. I was in Hell’s Kitchen. But sometimes we would see each other. More than a few times we patched each other up after particularly hard fights.”

Matt was the one who turned away this time. “I wish I had been able to save him. I wish he had told me about the collider. I knew he had been investigating Alchemax but I had been working on a different case. Maybe I would have been able to save him.”

Sometimes, late at night, Miles would wonder how things would have been different. How he could have saved Peter. Mostly he wished that he had picked up Peter and ran. Never mind how he only narrowly escaped from the Prowler - Uncle Aaron. Or that Peter had already been hurt pretty badly. He wondered if he hadn't been there, if Peter hadn’t had to save him, if they hadn’t talked, whether he would have lived.

But when he played out that scenario, he wasn’t sure if he would have ever put the mask on. With no life-and-death stakes to spur him on, without the possibility of one of the other spiders staying behind and dying a painful death, would he have taken that leap of faith? He didn’t know, and sometimes that question weighed heavy on his chest.

Matt looked at him for a long moment, his blind eyes feeling like they were searching Miles’s very soul. “He lost people he loved,” he continued. “He lost his first love, Gwen. No one could hold him back from trying to avenge her and kill the Green Goblin.” He smiled without humor. “That’s how he became the hulking monster he was. During a battle, he fell into a vat of chemicals that mutated him horribly. He had been smart, Kingpin smart, and then he became… that.”

Matt’s eyes bore into him, catching his full attention before he said, “That changed Peter, a lot.”

Miles sat up straighter, letting his knees slide back down to the ground.

“He wasn’t perfect. Peter was just… a kid trying his best. It’s easy to look back and see all the good he did. But he struggled. A lot. He didn’t have anyone to tell him that he was doing the right thing, or how to be Spider-Man. There was no one to tell him what mistakes to avoid, or what to worry about. He was Spider-Man, for better or worse.”

Miles swallowed, averting his gaze from the soul-searching look. Absently, he scratched at his wrist. “He left a big hole to fill.”

“He did,” Matt agreed easily. “I miss him. We all do. But-” Matt put a hand on Miles’s shoulder, bringing his attention back to him- “even if you’re his successor, you don’t have to be him. You can’t be him. You have to do your own thing.”

Miles let out a slow breath. It wasn’t the first time he had heard that sentiment. Peter B had said, ‘Don’t do it like me, do it like you.’ But it had been over a year since he had heard it. Maybe he needed to take that advice onboard again.

But that wasn’t the full extent of why he had fled down into the subway system, seeking familiar faces. If that was all it was, he would have just designed another suit.

“I feel like everyone’s watching me,” Miles mumbled, folding his arms and leaning back. “Every mistake I make, it’ll be known. As Miles or as Spider-Man. There’s no… escape. From responsibilities.” He quickly amended that. “Not that this job isn’t a responsibility. It’s always been one. But I… enjoyed it. It has just felt like a… curse, recently. I wouldn’t have been kidnapped if it wasn’t for the mask and then I wouldn’t have been blackmailed and had my family threatened and-” he cut himself off with a frustrated noise, kicking at a pebble by his foot.

The silence stretched for a moment. “You’ve been through a lot,” Matt agreed. “You still kept moving forward. That’s admirable.”

Miles shrugged. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“You did,” Matt said, leaving no room for argument. “You could have decided not to be Spider-Man after the facility. Or after the fight with Mysterio. You want to be Spider-Man, just like how I want to be Daredevil.”

Matt said it like it was that simple. That his want to go out and wear the suit was just a simple fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Miles wanted to be Spider-Man. Miles mulled over that statement for a long moment.

“Yeah. I want to be Spider-Man.” He sighed and looked back at the mural. His eyes caught on Uncle Aaron’s face. If he were still here, he would probably have some good advice. At least for the… social aspects of all this. How to face a crowd of people and appear confident. How to keep his cool. “It’s going to be… hard. Really hard. Everyone knows who I am.”

“It will be. I don’t envy you that.”

Miles snorted, a small smile breaking through. “It’ll be a… leap of faith. I just hope I don’t mess it up.”

Matt lightly squeezed Miles's shoulder before letting go. “Even if you do, you have people looking out for you. All of us want to see you succeed. You’ll see.”

Miles nodded. Matt had at least proven he would help Miles. That he was looking out for him. Miles would probably be dead, or worse, if Matt hadn’t been around.

Picking up his webshooters, he turned them over in his hand. Then frowned. He glanced over at Matt, at the web still clinging to his suit from when Miles had webbed him to the wall. Back down at the webshooters, which had definitely not been on his hands when he had done that. Then to his exposed wrists, at the scars from the facility.

“So, were you going to mention that I have organic webs now?” Miles demanded, hesitantly trying to thwip a web across the room. Sure enough, a web hit the back wall. When he tugged on it, it broke. Weaker than the artificial ones, then. At least for now - he would have to test them out when he went home.

Matt chuckled. “No. I figured it would be better if I let you discover them on your own.”

“Matt!” Miles hissed, running a finger along the length of his scar. He could feel a small hole, now that he was paying attention. “What the hell!”

“You had enough to fret over as it was,” Matt explained, but his smile betrayed him.

Miles grumbled but had no heat behind his annoyance. He was still feeling over his wrist, trying to figure it out. “I don’t even know when this happened.”

“The… organ has been there since I met you. The opening is new. You didn’t have it before last night,” Matt told him.

Miles absently mulled over that. It must have happened during the Sandman or Fisk fight. Maybe absorbing the artificial venom strike had something to do with it. 

“I guess this is… cool,” Miles eventually said. It was an advantage he could use in battle. Even if the webs were weaker, in a tight spot, they could be used to temporarily blind someone.

Matt got up and offered Miles his hand. “Ready to face the world yet?”

“I guess.” Miles accepted the hand, letting Matt pull him to his feet.

Matt put a reassuring hand on Miles’s shoulder. “Try to embrace this,” he advised. “Find any silver linings you can. There will be many.”

Miles took a deep breath, eyes straying to the mural once again. He could never be Peter, or Gwen, or Peter B, Noir, or Peni. He wasn’t a dancer or a master coder. He was only Miles, and would only ever be Miles. He had to embrace that, and that he was Spider-Man too. They had always been the same person, after all.

He was Spider-Man when he spray-painted his first suit. He was Miles when he destroyed the collider. He was Spider-Man when he escaped the facility with Amy and Jasmine. He was Miles when he absorbed the artificial venom, saving Ganke.

He had been Spider-Man for over a year, Miles Morales his whole life. He was Spider-Man, the kid from Brooklyn who went to Vision, with two parents who loved him, and a soon-to-be big brother.

He had faced starvation, experimentation, manipulation, suffocation, and drowning. And had come out on top.

He was Miles Morales - Spider-Man.

He would always be both, even if sometimes it had been easier to separate his identities.

“Yeah. There will be,” he agreed.

Many things would be easier. No longer would he have to think of believable lies on the spot to account for time lost as Spider-Man. No longer would he have to carefully protect his identity. There was one less layer of stress to being Spider-Man, even if it had led to all new ones.

He could face this. He had faced worse.

As they climbed out of the subway together, Miles couldn’t help but drag his feet a little. Even with all that had been resolved, he hesitated to face everything. To face the world again.

There were some noises of surprise and at least one phone pulled out to record him as he climbed up a building, Daredevil by his side. It wasn’t until they had perched several stories high, both of them blending into the night, that Miles finally spoke up.

“I think I have some apologies to give,” he said, resting his hands on his thighs.

Daredevil glanced over at him, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Yeah?”

“I, uh. I want to go do that. Now,” Miles whispered.

Daredevil put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just- let them know I’m okay. I mean, I’ll let them know I’m okay, but Mrs. Parker probably sent you out and-”

A small laugh cut Miles off, and he resisted the urge to wring his hands together.

“I’ll let May know you’re okay. I’m only a phone call away if you need me,” Daredevil assured. “Good luck.”

With a hop and a leap, Daredevil crossed over to the next building, disappearing from sight when he jumped to a lower building. 

Miles stood up straight, cracked his neck side to side, and thwipped the first web. If he waited too long, he knew he would freeze up and never make the journey. It didn’t take long for him to swing to his destination, his body on autopilot as he swung through neighborhoods he knew like the back of his hand.

It was only when he had knocked on the window with a rap, rap, rap rap rap, that he remembered with a small twinge of guilt that it was late on a school night. Miles may have been allowed to take the rest of the semester off, but Ganke hadn’t been.

The window was quickly opened anyway, and Ganke grabbed his hand to pull him inside.

“Where have you been?” Ganke demanded. “Your parents have been calling nonstop.”

Miles took off his mask and set it on the desk. “I had some… things to sort out,” he answered evasively.

“Why do you smell like blood? Hang on-” Ganke stepped towards the bunk bed, crouching down to grab the first aid kit. Miles put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I’m healed, it's fine. It’s old blood,” he explained. Ganke looked him over, eyes narrowed, and pulled it out anyway. “Wha- Ganke, I’m serious.”

Ganke stood back up, placing the well-stocked first aid kit on the bed. “Sure.”

“Ganke, please,” Miles tried. Ganke unzipped the bag, pulling out a large plaster and disinfectant. “I was grazed by a bullet but it's just old blood. I checked. It’s healed up.”

Ganke finally stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “And that's all there is?”

“Yeah.”

“You smell… like, burnt? Too?”

Miles looked away, warmth creeping up the back of his neck, “It’s my suit from- from the fight with Fisk. I haven’t washed it yet.”

“Oh. So you’re not hurt?” Ganke asked.

“Yep. I’m okay,” Miles reassured.

Ganke sucked in a breath, and let it out slowly. Miles kept quiet as he did it, watching curiously how Ganke closed his eyes and seemed to count on his fingers in time with every inhale and exhale. When he was finally done, his breathing evened out, he sat down on the bed, pulling his feet up so he could sit with crossed legs.

“Okay. So if you’re not hurt, why are you here?” Ganke asked.

Miles folded his arms and leaned back against the desk. “I… wanted to see you. And apologize,” he said, glad that his voice didn’t waver.

Ganke raised an eyebrow. He didn’t reply: instead, he waited for Miles to continue. A small flash of irritation welled inside of him. Mostly at himself, for how predictable he was - both Matt and Ganke had used the same technique on him.

“You’ve been a really good friend,” Miles started, resisting the urge to look away. “And I’ve been an asshole. I’ve been so focused on my stuff and… well I haven’t really made time for us.”

Ganke sighed, breaking eye contact first. “I didn’t want to put more on your plate.”

Miles looked down at his feet, studying the rips in his costume. “I meant it when I said you were all I had left, you know.” The words tried to clog up in his throat, a phantom weight settling on his chest. He swallowed. “Or, at least I thought you were… I thought my parents were dead, but you thought all of us were dead. I’m sorry I didn’t get a hold of you sooner.”

Ganke sniffled, eyes going watery. Miles, with no small amount of alarm, scrambled to grab the tissue box on the desk and passed the whole thing to him. “It was really hard when the facility had you,” he said, voice wavering and the smallest he had ever heard it. “I almost broke and told everyone that you were Spider-Man so many times because it had been so long and your parents were worried about you, and they had so many questions, and I wanted to say ‘he’s Spider-Man, I’m sure he’s fine’ so many times but you weren’t. You were really hurt and I knew how dangerous your job was but you were skin and bones, and then you fought Kravinoff and Owl and you were gone again and-”

“Maybe it would have been easier,” Miles cut him off, folding his arms again. “If everyone had known my identity from the start. Thank you for keeping it a secret, though.”

Ganke shrugged, wiping at his cheeks with a tissue. “I probably would have told everyone. But you came back and, yeah. I don’t know. I don’t know how you can be Spider-Man. It’s… terrifying,” Ganke admitted, eyes darting to the floor. “I almost died once and I’m a wreck, and you face it all the time like it’s no big deal.”

It was Miles’s turn to shrug, cheeks warming. “You get used to it. I don’t want… you to get used to it, though.”

“You don’t talk about it though. I’ve felt like blabbing to everyone all about it, all the time. I’ve had to book in, like, so many appointments with my therapist.”

Miles couldn’t help but glance at the still-open window, the curtains slowly shifting in the cold autumn breeze. He itched to dive through to avoid where the conversation was going. But he had done that already, running away from his well-meaning friend wanting him to get some help. It was part of why he was here, apologizing for being an asshole.

Ganke caught the look, his hands going up placatingly. “I’m not going to, like, insist that you talk to me or a therapist, though. I get that that’s not how you handle things.”

“I prefer punching my feelings out,” Miles tried to joke, but the delivery landed flat on its face. Ganke shifted, tensing up.

“Yeah, I saw that,” he said, voice hushed and small.

Right, Ganke had seen him about to kill Fisk. How he had stood over the cowering form of his enemy, lighting up the room with electric blue light ready to end him. If Ganke hadn’t interrupted…

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” Miles breathed out. With shaking hands he took his gloves off one by one, his webshooters joining them. He wanted to prove, to Ganke and himself, that he was determined to have this much-needed conversation. “I was… sure I had nothing left to lose. I wanted to take someone down with me, I guess. You… reminded me that I was wrong. Even if you caught me off guard and gave Fisk a chance to, well.”

Ganke passed Miles a tissue. He absently used it to wipe away a stray tear.

“Please don’t get hurt like that again. I almost threw up, like, three times looking at it,” Ganke said, voice determinedly light-heartedly.

Miles snorted, the sound wet. He rolled his ankle from side to side, just to satiate the part of himself that worried. “I’ll try not to.”

“You say, with literal dried blood on you,” Ganke pointed out.

Miles winced. He had almost forgotten about it. “Sorry.”

Ganke waved him off. “Whatever.”

The silence stretched uncomfortably, only filled with the background noise of Brooklyn.

“I will get help,” Miles said slowly, refusing to choke on the words. “A therapist.”

Miles didn’t miss the shocked look on Ganke’s face. Narrowly avoided wincing at the surprise such a statement could cause. He studied the wall instead and swallowed. “I felt like no one would understand, and I didn’t want to talk to you because, you, well, I didn’t want to… I don’t know. You always seemed to…”

Miles sucked in a breath, exhaled. Took a moment to breathe and sort out his thoughts before continuing. “You only saw the best parts of being Spider-Man, the cool stuff. I felt like you had put me on a… pedestal. That I couldn’t live up to. I’ve only ever wanted to give you the cleansed version of all this, so… maybe that was my fault too.”

Ganke folded his arms. “You know I wanted to hear all about it.”

“Sure,” Miles agreed, “but it’s one thing to tell you about how I beat Sandman using water and a venom strike. It’s another to tell you how I was terrified the whole time, scared that I would be suffocated to death because I couldn’t figure out how to beat him.”

The look he got was sharp, piercing. “You could have just told me that too.”

Miles shrugged, wilting under his friend's gaze. “I don’t know. It’s… hard to put into words. You were just so… excited about it all. More than I was. I didn’t want that to stop, I guess.”

Ganke looked down at the box of tissues in his lap. “Well, not everyone is friends with Spider-Man, either.”

Miles closed his eyes, resisting the urge to cringe away from that statement. “I don’t want to just be Spider-Man, though. Not to you. I want to be Miles.”

The silence stretched for a long, unnerving moment. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” Ganke apologized. When Miles opened his eyes, glancing up at his friend, guilt was plastered on his friend's face. “I guess it was just… easier to talk about Spider-Man. But it wasn’t for you. I’m sorry.”

Miles nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I just feel like… we need to start again. Everyone is only ever going to see me as Spider-Man, now that my identity is out. I don’t want to be that to you, not anymore. I just want a place to feel… normal.”

Ganke gave him a small smile, “Yeah. I can do that. We can do that. I won’t be friends with Spider-Man, I’m friends with Miles.”

“Well, they’re the same person,” Miles argued with no heat behind it.

“Of course you are. I just won’t be your ‘guy in the chair’ all the time. Not when I don’t have to be.”

Miles extended a hand, the weight on his chest easing. “Deal?”

“Deal.” They shook on it.

Miles exhaled, a small smile on his face. “Thank you.”

“No big deal,” Ganke said with a shrug. He glanced at the window, where the curtains were still softly moving in the breeze. “Are you staying here tonight? If you do, you should probably call your parents.”

Miles jolted, grabbing his webshooters and putting them back on. “Crap, right, nope, I’m going back to the hotel.”

Ganke grabbed Miles’s arm, stopping Miles with an amused grin on his face. “Before you go, you should probably get that blood off. Your parents are freaked out enough.”

“Right, yes, thank you,” Miles said with a laugh, cheeks warming up.

They didn’t get any of it out of his suit, but that was okay. All the itchy dried blood was gone.

Miles landed on the balcony with a soft thump. He didn’t allow himself time to hesitate before opening the door, ignoring how his hands shook with nerves.

The sound must have alerted them: Mamá and Dad were on him immediately. They fussed over him, overlapping questions overwhelming him, but he didn’t mind. He submitted to it without complaint.

“I’m sorry. I should have brought my phone with me. I won’t do that again,” Miles promised, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

“Más vale que no! ” Mamá scolded, finally finishing her examination of him and enveloping him in a tight hug. “We were worried.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Miles apologized again, hugging her back.

“What were you doing going out as Spider-Man so soon?” Dad asked, hand on Miles’s shoulder. “You only just healed from your broken leg!”

Miles studied his feet. “I just- I had to get some energy out. I don’t know.”

“You should have talked to us.”

“I know.”

“Don’t know, do,” Dad scolded.

“Okay, okay, I will,” Miles grumbled, though there was no heat behind it. 

Mamá clearly wasn’t entirely satisfied, but let it go for now. She stood back, picking at a stray thread on his costume. “Your costume is so…”

“Not exactly new, I know. I’m… I’m thinking of visiting Mrs. Parker. I have some things I need her help with anyway,” Miles said, hands on his hips.

Mamá shared a glance with Dad, one of those silent conversations he wasn’t included in. “Is that all you need help with?” she asked softly.

Miles pursed his lips, gaze jumping to a corner of the room instead of meeting their eyes. “I guess… maybe… maybe I could join a martial arts club or something. Learn some first aid. Stuff to help me… help others,” he said slowly, haltingly.

Mamá cupped his cheek, her hand warm against his skin. “Of course.”

“Maybe, uh, maybe I should see someone too. Someone to talk to about all… this,” Miles said slowly, balling his hands into fists so they wouldn’t shake.

Mamá’s eyes softened. She kissed him on the forehead. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Miles exhaled, smiling. “Cool.”

Even with all that he had resolved, he still wasn’t ready to face New York as Miles. He didn’t know how they would react to him, and he wanted to squeeze out just a little more time before he had to face the music.

Reluctantly he washed his suit in the hotel bath that night, hanging it over the curtain railing, before heading to bed. It was a long way to Queens and going out in a blood-soaked suit would be a great way to end up on the evening news for all the wrong reasons. Yet it was still too cold to go swinging in what clothes he had at the hotel, and he didn’t want to risk getting swarmed by going there on the subway.

Despite having slept practically the whole day, he was out like a light when he finally hit the pillows. Three back-to-back emotional conversations had drained him completely and left his dreams that night blissfully black.

The next day was calm. He took his time waking up and getting out of bed, joining his Dad on the couch with a bowl of hotel cereal. They watched an episode of something random together before Miles went to put his suit on. He spent another five minutes standing underneath the heater, soaking in the warmth and evaporating the last of the water before facing the cold air outside.

As he pulled his mask on, doubling checking his webshooters, Dad spoke up before he reached the door. “Be safe,” he insisted.

Miles nodded, his smile hidden by the mask. “I will be, promise.”

He closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath, shaking out his nerves. He had done this a thousand times before. He liked swinging. One step, two, three, he launched himself off the railing, backflipping into the New York skyline.

The air whooshed past him as he swung, cold against his exposed skin from the rips in his costume. He forced himself to ignore the shouts and phones taking pictures of him as he went. It wasn’t like people hadn’t done the same before his identity was revealed, but the occasional shout of “Miles!” was new and disorientating every time.

It was no time at all before he was landing in Mrs. Parker's backyard. He paused at the entrance of the shed, blinking away images of Sandman filling the space, but pushed himself forward regardless.

Sandman had slunk off after his fight with Miles: no one had seen him since. Even if he was still around, his boss was out of the picture. He had no reason to come after Miles, nor had he seemed to want to, even when instructed to kill him.

As the platform descended, Miles spotted Mrs. Parker sitting at the computer, a cup of tea in hand. “Good to see you, Miles,” she greeted.

“Good to be here,” he returned easily, stepping off of the platform before it reached the bottom. “I have something to show you.”

Mrs. Parker raised an eyebrow expectantly, leaning back in her chair. Miles took a slow deep breath, taking off his webshooters and putting them down on the computer desk.

“This is, like, really weird,” he warned. “Weirder than there being other spider people.”

And with that, he thwipped a web across the room. When he hadn’t heard Mrs. Parker remark on his new power, he glanced over at her. She hardly seemed shocked. Instead, she slowly sipped at her tea.

“Um, I have organic webs now?” Miles prompted, lifting his wrist up higher, the web still attached to it.

“So you do,” Mrs. Parker agreed.

Miles huffed, releasing the web. “This is weird, right? You- you don’t think this is weird?”

“It is odd,” Mrs. Parker said, putting her tea down. “Have you tested them?”

“I was- I was kind of hoping you’d help with that? I haven’t even told my parents,” Miles sighed, picking at a stray thread on his costume.

Mrs. Parker smiled, “I think we can do that.”

And test it they did. By the end, Miles had learned a lot more about his spinnerets. Chemically, it was incredibly similar to the artificial webs Peter had originally come up with, which wasn’t entirely surprising since Peter’s had been based on spider webs.

Vitally, though, his webs could not only withstand his venom strike’s better than the artificial ones ever could - they could also conduct electricity through them. Immediately he was salivating at how much easier fights could be. If he could web someone at a distance, he could also venom strike them.

The webs were strong, too. They were weaker than the artificial ones and disintegrated quicker, but they could hold his weight. Already they were brainstorming ideas for how to integrate his spinnerets with the webshooters, with quick changes depending on the situation.

Knowing he had his spinnerets, though, that he would never be defenseless, it scratched an itch that had been grating on him. 

He had a bigger itch to scratch, though. One that was arguably more urgent.

“Did you ever set up a… system, with Peter,” Miles asked softly, sitting up on the wall above Mrs. Parker’s workstation as he turned a webshooter over in his hand, “some way to let each other know that you were okay?”

Mrs. Parker stilled from where she had been sketching some new designs for the webshooter. “We had one,” she said.

Miles hated pressing on a bruise, but: “I- I really scared them when I had my… breakdown. I know they worried that I had been kidnapped, again. I need some way to let them know I’m okay, and I know they’re okay.”

Mrs. Parker’s lips pressed into a firm line. She took a deep breath in and nodded. “I have some designs sketched up from before. We can integrate a heart monitor into your suit so those with access can check on you. Separately, we can hide a button in your suit where if you press it, it will send out your coordinates.”

He hesitated, a question bubbling forth that he knew he had to ask but almost didn’t want to know. “Did you have it when…”

“No,” Mrs. Parker said, not looking up at him.

Miles glanced away, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“We had decided against it,” May explained after a long moment. “There was too much risk that someone could hack into the system and reveal our locations.”

“You didn’t want anyone to figure out your secret identities,” Miles guessed. Something he didn’t have to worry about, anymore.

“I would… take it all back, just to have him back,” Mrs. Parker whispered, so quiet he wouldn’t have heard it if not for his enhanced senses.

“I’m sorry,” Miles said again, but this time he wasn’t apologizing for opening old wounds. This time he was apologizing for not acting sooner, for his cowardice to act when Peter had needed him. He was the first in a slowly growing list of people he could have saved but hadn’t: Peter, Uncle Aaron, the man from the facility. They all served as marks against his heart - tallied with the people he had killed. 

Owl was the first he knew for certain was buried six feet under because of him - or maybe more accurately lurking at the bottom of the Hudson.

Mrs. Parker took a deep breath. “No,” she breathed out. “It wasn’t your fault. Peter and I knew what we were getting into.”

Miles folded his arms, leaning back. “Yeah,” he said, noncommittally.

“Right,” she said suddenly, standing up straight. “You need a new suit.”

He welcomed the change of conversation. “I have some changes I want to make, I- I want something new.”

Mrs. Parker gave him a knowing grin. “The floor is yours.”

Miles slipped down from the wall, striding over to the fabric closest. Mrs. Parker made no move to join him, simply watching him. Miles paused in digging out the blue fabric, glancing back.

“Yeah?” He prompted.

“I think it’s about time I give you unlimited access to this place,” Mrs. Parker said. Her eyes were distant, seeing him without really looking at him. Like she was stuck in her memories.

“Really?”

She blinked and looked away. “I’m not cut out for all this… excitement anymore. I think it’s time this old girl moved somewhere sunnier.”

Miles couldn’t help but look around at the spider lair. Down the bottom, it was well lit up, but high up in the rafters it was dark. He knew this lair well, but he had never let himself think about it too closely.

But as he took the time to really look, he could see the dust that had settled on every surface that wasn’t regularly used. It had only been maintained for his benefit, to help him transition into being New York’s new Spider-Man.

For Mrs. Parker, though, this place only reminded her of all she had lost.

Rolling out the fabric for his new suit, a design already in mind, he understood that — the need to discard the old for the new as if to shed away old skin.

He paused in place, meeting Mrs. Parker's eyes. “I’m ready now,” he reassured. “I can face this. I’ll keep his legacy strong.”

Mrs. Parker’s kind eyes searched his very soul. “I know you will.”

Swinging home in the new suit, he arched into a swing flying higher than he had in months.

It was like all the weights that had dragged him down were finally gone, allowing him to reach new heights. There were no stray grains of sand to dig into his skin, no dried blood to stain the suit. It smelled new too - like a new car.

The small hidden breathing apparatus in his mask helped with that, filtering the chronically bad smells of New York.

Miles didn’t mind the photos he knew people were taking, reveling in their gazes. It was a good design, and he knew it.

It was all the old parts made new.

It was his graffiti spider on his back, a reflection of his hasty leap of faith. It was his suit, the minimalist black emboldened by the red running from his hands and down his sides. It was Peter, in the 3D blue layered below all the red. It was the deep purple hidden within his spider lenses - a detail you would miss without looking for it.

It was all the parts of himself stitched together in one suit, ready to face a new era of his life.

It was his.

Chapter Text

“Hello Miles, how are you feeling today?” the school therapist, Myah, asked once they had sat down on their respective couches.

Miles shrugged, leaning back and putting one of the pillows from the couch on his lap. “Fine.”

Myah took down a note. “Good, good. Well, introductions are probably in order - at least from me! You can’t go five feet without seeing your face nowadays.”

“Yep,” Miles agreed, smoothing out the surface of the velvet pillow, determinedly burying the twinge in his chest from the reminder of his fame.

“I’m Myah, I got my master's at Empire State University and have been practicing for two years now. I have a passion for adolescent psychology. I’ve lived in New York all my life and I’ve always been a big fan of Spider-Man. So, really, it's quite an honor to get to know you better.”

“Don’t-” Miles cut himself off with a frustrated noise, fixing his gaze on the wall full of posters instead of her. Tucked in amongst the posters on panic attacks and information on his rights as a patient was a ‘hang in there’ cat poster. “I don’t want it to be an honor.”

Myah sat up straighter. “Tell me more about that?”

“I don’t do this for fame,” Miles said, folding his arms over the pillow. “I fully intended to remain anonymous until I died. I never wanted to talk about this with anyone other than Ganke.”

Myah nodded, writing a note down before she leaned forward. “I think I understand. I can assure you that I will put my best, most professional foot forward.”

He relaxed somewhat, absently tugging at a corner of the pillow. “I don’t want anything I say to leave this room.”

“These conversations won’t be leaked. I’ve taken extra measures to ensure that my notes cannot be accessed by anyone other than me. You’ve put a lot of trust in me and I appreciate that,” Myah assured him, giving him a kind smile.

Miles puffed out a breath, meeting her searching eyes. “Okay,” he said. If any of this was going to work, if he was actually going to follow through on getting help, he had to let his misgivings go and put his faith in her to follow through.

He wanted this to work. He wanted to trust her. Until she proved him wrong, he had to. So he would.

The second time he went to the taekwondo club, two days after his third time going to jiu-jitsu, he was saying goodbye to the still star-struck club members when the instructor called his name.

“Miles? Can you stay behind for me?” Mr. Mueller called out. “Jason keep the door open on your way out.”

Miles waved goodbye to Jason and the other few stragglers before making his way over to the instructor. He respectfully bowed. “Yeah?”

“You’re picking things up very quickly, it’s quite admirable,” Mr. Mueller said.

Raising an eyebrow, Miles agreed, “It might have something to do with my second job.”

Mr. Mueller huffed, “Yes. Of course. Why I called you back was actually because I was hoping to give you some… one-on-one training. You’re quickly going to exceed your peers. I want you to keep coming to class, though, and retaining your basics.”

“Sure, I do too.” But he couldn’t help but silently wonder if keeping him with his peer group was a marketing tactic. Not every martial art club could boast of having Spider-Man in their ranks. Only two, since Mamá had forbidden him from joining anymore with his already full plate.

Mr. Mueller must have caught on too, as he added, “I don’t say that just because you’re Spider-Man. I say that because I enjoy teaching someone who I know will take my lessons to heart. And you’ll only keep coming back if you’re alive.”

Miles chuckled, cheeks burning up. “I’m probably the only student who’ll ever use this stuff practically, too.”

“Yes, and I hope you keep it that way,” Mr. Mueller agreed. “But I have more to teach than just how to kick. This will help your self-discipline, your posture, your physical awareness and your confidence. I want you to put everything I teach to good use.”

He couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah, yeah I will sir. Thank you.”

It ended up taking five weeks from when they first moved into the hotel before there wasn’t a constant stream of news vans on the block, hoping to be the first to catch a glimpse of Spider-Man with his family. Miles knew because he had checked every day for the past two weeks, waiting to give the all-clear for them to finally go home.

Poor Dad had ordered him to go home and get their electric cooktop after only a day of Miles wearing his new suit, sick to death of takeout. Miles was too, so he hardly complained about the long round trip with an overstuffed backpack. It would be a relief to finally have home-cooked meals again.

Miles went first, tuned in on his spider-sense as he walked up the stairs. Mamá went second, and Dad took up the rear. He was so focused on it, in fact, that when they reached the third floor Miles dramatically tripped over something on the ground.

Catching himself on the wall, it took a long moment for him to take in what he was seeing.

From floor to ceiling, taking up the entire space with only thin walkways for anyone else to walk through, were thousands of gifts and letters. With shaking hands he picked up the nearest one, staring at who it was addressed to.

Miles Morales, Spider-Man.

“Mierda,” he heard Mamá softly whisper behind him.

“Fuck,” Miles agreed wholeheartedly, easily ducking out of the way of Mamá’s swipe. This was what he got for sneaking in through the window instead of through the front door - missing out on all the mail.

Carefully navigating the piles, he picked his way over to the front door. It took several tries for him to successfully put his key into the lock and open it with how hard his hands were shaking - only to be met by another massive pile of letters littered along the ground.

Miles, with a small amount of guilt, hurried to grab a broom to help clear a path for Dad - who still had a boot on. Guilt for treating the gifts, all intended for him, to such poor treatment.

“This is a fire hazard,” Dad complained with no heat behind it, making his way to their bedroom with their suitcase.

Miles picked up a letter at random, carefully opening it.

Dear Miles Morales Spider-Man,

I hope this letter finds you well. Your selfless dedication to protecting us from every villain, crook, and mob boss is nothing short of inspiring.

Please know that your efforts are not in vain. Your kindness, courage, and determination inspire us to be better individuals, to look out for one another, and to strive for a better world. Your sacrifices are not unnoticed or unappreciated.

Spider-Man is a heavy burden for someone so young, but I hope you find moments of joy and support amidst your challenging responsibilities.

The city stands behind you now.

With the utmost gratitude,

Stan

By the end of the letter, he could hardly stop the tears that spilled over. At the sincerity - so many people had sent similar letters because they wanted to thank him. Him.

Overwhelmed, he made his way to his bedroom.

It made seeing his room blanketed with a layer of dust and stale air that much harder to face.

He mechanically made his way to the back of the room and opened the window, welcoming the cold breeze that rolled in. He stayed there for a long moment, leaning against the window sill, and breathed .

This room was his. But just like before they had left for the hotel all he could feel was the mourning ache for a former self that echoed in every corner. It didn’t feel like his room anymore, instead, it felt like a snapshot of who he used to be.

Miles took a slow breath in, held it, and let it out, counting like Myah had taught him to do. He repeated it until the ache had faded into something manageable.

Putting his bag of stuff down on the bed, he slowly started to pick his way through his room section by section. First, his desk, which he wiped down and sorted through. He only kept the items he wanted, straying into the kitchen to grab a garbage bag for his donation pile.

He had a feeling he would be making several such trips with the overwhelming pile of gifts waiting for him.

All the posters were taken down except for one or two, his statues were put aside except for the collectible - still in its box. Every surface was wiped down, his bedsheets were renewed. By the time he was done, his room was the cleanest and emptiest he had ever had it.

A blank canvas for him to make his.

Ignoring the majority of items in the hallway, and Thomas when he breezed past on the way out, he picked through for cylindrical mail. Posters that people had taken the time to print and send.

By the time he was done, exhausted by the long effort of cleaning for so long, his room felt refreshed. There were still the aches of grief trying to dig their claws into his heart, but it was a manageable kind of sadness. A longing for a simpler time.

It would take time to truly call his room his again, but he would.

Perched on a rooftop, his breath billowing out and disrupting the slowly falling snow, Miles longed for something to happen. The patrol had been annoyingly slow, and he was tempted to call it a night despite it only being seven PM.

Even with the layer of insulation in his suit and the thermals he was wearing, it was still bitterly cold. Swinging wouldn’t exert himself enough to warm up, so instead he perched in the dark. Waiting.

“Miles?” A voice called out.

It didn’t make him flinch anymore, hearing his real name being used when he was wearing the mask. It still made him tense up, though.

Nimbly turning around and sitting down, he greeted the approaching figure. “Yeah? Hi. How can I help you?”

As they stepped into the light he was able to make them out more clearly. It was a lady maybe in her mid-twenties, hair poking out from her red and white striped beanie. She was wrapped up in a thick down jacket, hands clutching at something round and steaming in her hand. “Hi, Spider-Man. Are you okay?” they asked.

“Y-yeah?” Miles said, unable to mask his surprise at the question. He had faced the Shocker last week - but that had only been a brief skirmish. It had given him a sprained ankle that had quickly healed after sitting down for half an hour. Nothing that would promote any worry for his well-being.

She pushed the object into his hand, and he took it without question. He hummed in pleasure at the warmth, quickly figuring out what it was. A hot drink.

“You looked cold,” they explained, cheeks visibly red even in the low light.

His spider-sense was quiet. Reassured by that, he lifted his mask to his nose and took a sip. Rich chocolate lit up his senses, the hot chocolate warming up his very core.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, holding the cup closer to himself to soak in all of the warmth it could provide.

She smiled, looking down at the ground bashfully. “It was the least I could do, after all you’ve done for the city.”

It was his turn to feel sheepish. Miles shrugged. “Just comes with the job.”

“I know.” They slowly began to back up. “I wish I could stay but I have to go. Enjoy the hot chocolate.”

“Where do I return the mug?” Miles asked.

She shook her head, “It’s okay,” she insisted. “You can keep it.”

The door to the roof closed with a soft click. Miles took his time enjoying the quiet, falling snow, warmed to his core by the drink. When he went to leap away, he paused and really looked at the mug.

It was clearly handmade, the surface not quite even. And engraved on the cup were two carefully painted figures - two Spider-Men. One in red and blue, and one in black and red.

His heart clenched - but it wasn’t out of pain, or grief. It was an ache of warmth, of happiness.

Carefully he set it down on a ledge only he could reach. He would come back for it on his way home once he finished his patrol.

The sidewalk crunched under his feet as he swung to the ground, grateful for his spider stickiness on the icy ground. On all sides, he was surrounded by a swarm of students returning from the winter break.

The collar of his Spider-Man suit peeked out from his clothes, but he didn’t bother to fold it down. Everyone knew who he was. Many students were trying to be discreet as they photographed him or were just straight-up staring, but he paid them no mind as he elegantly made his way through the crowd.

Almost to the steps, he was startled as a cold hand wrapped around his forearm. “Miles?”

He disguised his near yelp with a cough. Even with all the time that had passed, he knew instantly who it was. “Jasmine?”

Jasmine gave him a sheepish smile, nervously glancing at the surrounding crowd. “I tried to message you earlier but your settings are like, really private on Instagram.”

“If you saw how many notifications I get, you’d understand,” Miles agreed absently, keeping in step with Jasmine as they went inside.

“I just- I wanted to thank you,” Jasmine explained, hands still encircling his right arm. “I’ve seen on the news how you’ve been helping the police with those Owl facilities and with helping the victims and- well, thank you.”

Miles shrugged. “It’s part of my job, y’know?”

“But you’re doing it even after all they did! Sometimes I have nightmares about what would have happened if I had stayed longer,” she admitted quietly.

Miles closed his eyes, looking away from her earnest face. He was no stranger to nightmares of his own. “It would have been pretty boring,” Miles reassured once he had calmed himself back down.

“Oh. Thank you.”

Miles shrugged again. “No worries.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jasmine said, stopping off to the side by some lockers. “You’re, well, Spider-Man, and have all these cool powers, and I do too, but I could never go out crime fighting. I just want to build things. You save New York on the regular.”

“Building things can help people too. You don’t have to be Spider-Man,” Miles insisted.

“About- about Spider-Man,” Jasmine said, slowly, haltingly. “I- I wasn’t the one who leaked your identity. I didn’t tell anyone anything, I promise.”

Miles wanted to laugh but was stopped by how serious she looked. “I know you weren’t the one that leaked it.”

“Really?” Jasmine whispered.

Miles grinned ruefully. “They knew from the moment I was kidnapped who I was. At this point, I’m just glad it isn’t just my villains who know. Much harder to blackmail me.”

“Oh. Right. Okay, good,” she said, straightening up. She stepped back. “I should let you get to class.”

“I’ll see you around,” Miles said, giving her his best smile.

With that, Jasmine split off, making her way into the crowd and disappearing again. Miles took his leave and navigated toward his own locker. Occasionally he heard his own name whispered through the crowd, but didn’t let that stop him.

Just as he had almost reached the locker, someone stepped in front of him.

“Uh, hi?” Miles greeted them. They looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on where he knew them from.

“Hi, Miles, Spider-Man. Look, can you come over here? Quickly?” they asked, wringing their hands together.

He glanced over at the nearest clock. There was still time before the first class started. “Sure. This is the least subtle kidnapping I’ve ever experienced though.”

They beckoned him to follow them, ducking into a relatively quiet corner. There were three people there waiting for him. Grouped together, he realized where he knew them from. They were his classmates from his math class, the ones that had thought he was anorexic.

The one in the middle, hair tied back in an intricate French braid, was the first to speak up. “We, uh, wanted to apologize.”

His eyes darted between them, an eyebrow raising. Miles kept quiet, though, waiting them out.

“We didn’t know that you were, uh, Spider-Man,” the one to the side spoke up, messing with his scruffy hair. “It was just a bit hard to believe that you were anyone that anyone would want to kidnap.”

Miles crossed his arm, leaning his weight on his right leg. “Sure, okay.”

The girl with the French braid swatted him, before clarifying, “What he meant was that we were dicks. Can we start fresh?”

Looking between them all, he wasn’t stupid enough to think they weren’t doing it because of his newfound fame. They likely wanted to use him for that, but he wanted them to prove him wrong. He would take their apology at face value.

“Sure,” he agreed, watching the lines of tension ease on all of them. “I’ll see you in class.”

With that, he waved goodbye and made his way back into the crowd, heading towards his first class of the day.

Swinging past Times Square he almost sighed when he saw a thief discreetly snatch a lady’s handbag and walk away.

Miles landed in front of them, crossing his hands and giving them as disappointed a look as he could. “Want to give that back?” he asked.

They put their hands up. “Yep!”

Miles waited and watched as they went back to the lady, giving the purse back with a story about seeing it ‘dropped on the ground.’ He rolled his eyes, ready to thwip away again when-

Something was pulled over his head, wildly disorienting him because his spider-sense hadn’t gone off what the hell!

A weight was put across his shoulders, dragging him over to the side. He barely avoided snapping their arm, hands making an aborted move to reach up and do so, and he would have if not for his split-second check-in to his spider-sense.

“Come get your picture with the one and only Spider-Man!” A voice yelled right next to his ear, and he winced at the volume.

When he finally blinked down to see what had been put on him in-between selfies with the small crowd of people, it was a t-shirt with ‘I <3 NY’ on it, the heart filled in with both Peter and his Spider-Man costumes.

He indulged the crowd for another five minutes before calling it a day, swinging away with the shirt still on. It was only several minutes later when he was folding the shirt up, hiding it in his backpack he had stashed away at the start of his patrol, that he realized something.

No one had asked him to take his mask off.

“How have your nightmares been recently?” Myah asked five minutes into their session, eyes knowing, watching him closely.

Miles glanced away, shrugging. “Bad. I’m… I’m always having them now - unless I’m exhausted.”

“Have you been purposefully staying up later to bring that on? Patrolling longer?” When Miles didn’t reply, she hummed. “I know we’ve talked about that before.”

“I know, it's just… easier. I try to go to bed and get reasonable amounts of sleep but sometimes I wake up after them and I need to get that energy out,” Miles forced himself to explain.

“Do you get that energy out on patrol?” Myah asked.

“Sort of.”

Myah noted something down, then sat back. “Have you tried sitting with those feelings? With that energy? I understand you often spiral into what-ifs, but have you tried to sit with those emotions?”

“I feel hopeless,” Miles admitted, unable to meet her kind eyes. “I… I hate feeling like that.”

“Why do you feel hopeless?” she prompted.

That was an easy question to answer. “I was helpless to stop them dying. I had to beg for their lives.”

“It was out of your control.”

“Yep.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she asked, “But they survived without your help, right?”

“With Mrs. Parker’s help, yeah,” Miles conceded after a pause.

“A whole week without your help, facing Kingpin’s men. That wasn’t easy to do.”

Miles shrugged. “Yeah.”

“And now, you’ve taken steps to ensure their safety, correct? That they know when you’re okay, too. The… panic buttons, you called them last session?” Myah asked him.

Miles took a deep breath. They had put a small button in his mask, hidden behind his ear. If he ever pushed it for more than five seconds, instantly Mamá, Dad, Mrs. Parker, and Ganke would get a notification with his location. Similarly, they had buttons installed on their phones that would send a notification to him. If they ever wanted to know if he was okay, he would get a buzz to check-in. If he didn’t check back within a certain amount of time, they would get his location data.

The first few times he had gone out with it installed there had been an almost constant buzz, but after a few weeks, it had slowed to only one or two times a patrol.

“Yeah, it’s been working,” Miles agreed.

Myah nodded, smiling. “So when you get into these spirals of hopelessness, I want you to work on interrupting that circle. I want you to think about how capable they are, and what steps you’ve taken already to ensure their safety. Let’s give that a try now.”

Miles took another deep breath, bracing himself. “Okay.”

Boom.

“Spider-Mannn!” A voice yelled out, voice distorted like it was being spoken through a megaphone.

Miles sagged in his seat, ignoring the curious eyes of his classmates watching him closely. Their whispers. With a sigh he got up, dropping his jacket on his chair before he gave the teacher a farewell wave and left class.

With practiced motions, he left the rest of his clothes webbed neatly to the empty space above the lockers. Gloves and mask pulled on, he went to climb out the nearest window.

“Good luck, Spider-Man!” Someone called out from behind him.

Miles swung onto the scene and immediately regretted coming along at all. “Hi Screwball,” Miles said with a resigned sigh.

“Spider-Man! Oh, I’m so happy you came along! Especially on a school day!” Screwball screeched.

“You’ve laid out bombs right by my school, Screwball. A school that everyone knows I go to. Look, can we just get this over with?” Miles asked, changing his left webshooter to use the stronger webs, leaving his right on the bio-webs.

“We sure can-”

“Stop fighting on a school day!” someone interrupted. Screwball instantly began whining about said interruption. Miles turned his attention to the bystander.

“You're a bad example to all kids! The city doesn’t need you anyway! You’re a freak!” they spat.

Miles rolled his eyes, “If you hate me so much, aren’t you so glad I stopped actual bad guys getting my powers?”

“Spider-Man’s got a point!” Screwball agreed cheerily.

Miles thwipped a web at Screwball, attaching it to the exposed skin of her face before venom striking her through the bio-web. “Don’t agree with me, please.”

It took a long ten minutes for Miles to encase the bombs in thick webbing, trying to lessen their explosive potential while he waited for the experts to turn up. Five minutes in, the police turned up with the bomb squad.

“Thanks for assisting, Spider-Man,” Greg, the nice police officer from the Kravinoff fight and the scuffle with the bank robbers, said in lieu of a greeting.

Miles shrugged, dusting off a stray strand of web. “No worries. I have to get back to class, though.”

Greg tipped his hat, “We have it from here.”

Knock, knock, knock.

The one time he decided to spend a quiet morning with his parents, instead of immediately going out into the city to patrol, it was interrupted.

Miles sighed and unraveled himself from the lump of blankets he had wrapped himself in, resigning himself to the rest of his day disappearing into Spider-Man shenanigans.

Opening the door, he was mildly confused to see one of the upstairs neighbors, Finn. “Hi?”

“Hi, Miles. I was hoping for a bit of help?” Finn asked hopefully. Yep, his day was written off. He’d have to grab his costume from his bedroom.

“Sure, let me just go grab my suit-”

“Oh, no. You don’t need to do that. Probably.” Miles paused mid-step, turning back to Finn. “See, I’ve bought this couch and I thought I could get it up the stairs myself and, well, you’re pretty strong right?”

Miles blinked at him, eyes round. “I am.”

“Could you help me get it up to my place? I totally understand if you’re busy though,” Finn hurriedly rambled.

Miles smiled. “No, no, it’s all good. Lead the way.”

A few days later, he was swinging through the air when he saw something soaring high above the surrounding buildings. It distracted him so much that he almost smacked face-first into a sign.

Thwipping a web, he quickly made his way toward the floating thing and landed on the building below it. He sat down on a nearby heating vent, enjoying the warmth it provided his freezing limbs. He shaded his eyes as he looked up, trying to figure out whatever it was.

Watching in astonishment, he realized that it was actually a person, and that that person had wings. He settled down to watch them - how they dipped and dived and played in the air like it was their own personal playground.

Finally, they seemed to realize they were being watched and neatly came to land in front of him.

Amy, he realized with a start.

Pulling his mask off, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Hi - Amy, how are you?”

Her wings tucked in close behind her, hidden from sight. She glanced at the ground, scuffing it with her shoe. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah? Your wings look a lot better,” Miles said, resisting the urge to crane his head to get another look at them. Just to see her again after all this time, when he had wondered if she had been okay, was amazing.

“I’ve been getting used to them,” she mumbled. “I can fly now.”

“I saw,” Miles couldn’t keep the wonder out of his voice. It was one thing to swing around New York, but to fly? That would be really cool. “I wish I could.”

She looked up at him, eyes round. “Really? But you’re - Spider-Man!”

“Yeah, but, wings are so in,” Miles grinned.

“My friends think they’re cool…” she whispered, wringing her hands together. “They want me to fly them around but I can’t. They’re not strong enough.”

Miles shrugged. “That will come with time, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Thank you for saving me…”

“Couldn’t leave you behind,” is all he said. He didn’t regret going back to save her, not for a moment, not when the proof of how much he could help was standing before him. Even if helping her had broken his wrist, breaking down the door.

She was why he put on the mask every day, even with all it cost him. Her and all the people from the subway, all the personal letters people sent him thanking him for his work. The mask was more than just himself: it was a commitment and promise he had made.

But moments like this just reinforced it, driving him forward.

“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!” Miles joked breathlessly, arms aching with how quickly he arched into every swing.

The Vulture, completely uncaring for what was going on in Miles’s life, had decided it was the perfect time to rob a bank. When Miles was on his way to meet her for the first time, nonetheless.

“Leave me alone, bug!” Vulture screeched.

“I’m an arachnid!” Miles retorted, twisting out of the way of yet another barrage of feather daggers. “Not a hemiptera or insecta!”

“Gah!” The Vulture finally turned to face him, claws coming out with an ominous shink. “I need this money!”

Miles took the opening. After much tinkering Miles had perfected the changing of the web types and used this to his advantage. Using the super strong webbing, he thwipped a web to stick the claws together - rendering them practically harmless - then used them as an anchor point to swing up and onto Vulture’s back.

Vulture reached behind his head, attempting to throw Miles off, but he skittered out of the way easily. “Get off me!”

“Nope! Say hi to the pavement for me!” Miles taunted, before destroying the Vulture’s flight pack with a well-aimed, venom-fueled punch.

He jumped off with a backflip just as it exploded, taking mercy on the buzzard by attaching a web to his falling figure and letting them both descend slower. For good measure, though, he webbed him to the ground.

“You couldn’t have chosen, like, any other day,” Miles complained as he waited for the police to turn up, sitting on the nearby curb. “Like, I’m famous enough that everyone probably knows by now.”

“I don’t care about your personal life, Miles Morales,” the Vulture hissed, but Miles just rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, dude, just hang tight,” he said, wrapping a gash on his thigh with practiced motions. With a better-trained eye, he knew it wouldn’t need stitches - just a good night's rest.

He didn’t have to wait too long until his favorite police officer (besides his Dad, of course) turned up. “You better get going,” Greg told him without preamble. “Your Dad says it’s time.”

Miles gave him a two-fingered salute, “Aye-aye, captain! Bye!”

Miles couldn’t keep his eyes off his new baby sister, Billie Mariana Morales. He was well and truly a big brother now.

“She’s so little,” he whispered, presenting her with a gloved finger. She happily took it with her whole fist, holding on to it with all her strength.

“Won’t be for long,” his Dad said, affectionately rubbing the top of Miles’s head. He resisted the urge to duck away, submitting to it with the precious cargo he was holding.

Billie yawned, presenting her toothless mouth to the world. His heart melted. She blinked up at him without truly looking at him, her hazel brown eyes drifting past his face to the ceiling.

Not today, but someday he would make his promise a reality. The promise to have her look up to him, and for him to be worthy of that look. He was well and truly a big brother now.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised Billie. Dad wrapped a hand around his shoulders, providing a comforting warmth for him to lean into.

“You will,” Dad agreed easily.

Hot dog in hand, Miles leaned against the air vent, absently chewing while he enjoyed the small moment of quiet. The Hudson River glittered in the moonlight, providing him with a scenic view. It allowed time for his sore muscles to settle into a well-earned ache from a good patrol.

Just as he swallowed the last bite, picking up his mask to tug it back on, something weird began to happen.

The napkin he was holding began to float in the air, drifting up. So did any stray bits of chipped cement. Warily he got up, crouching low as he looked around for the source. His spider-sense remained blissfully silent, but he was still on edge.

Like a rip in the very fabric of the universe, a swirling portal of purple and yellow appeared in front of his disbelieving eyes.

And out stepped-

“Gwen,” Miles whispered, resisting the urge to pinch himself.

Gwen spotted him immediately, stepping out of the swirling portal and onto the rooftop. The portal closed and Miles snatched the napkin out of the air before it could drop.

She looked good, but different. Her hair was longer, with pink highlights at the bottom. Her undercut was still there, but cleaner than when he had seen her last. Despite himself, his chest ached at the very sight of her.

“Miles,” she greeted, giving him a fond smile. But it was colored by something - a grief, or a weight. It had him standing up straighter. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s- it’s good to see you too. What was that? Was that a portal? How did you get here?” Miles questioned, taking a tentative step forward.

“Look, I- I need your help,” she interrupted, one hand coming up to hold on to her other arm. “I- this is so weird. Seeing you like this.”

Miles frowned, folding his arms. “Don’t like the new get-up?”

“No, it’s- It’s a great suit! I’m just used to- seeing it differently. Seeing you differently. The scar is new,” Gwen bumbled through her explanation, but it only had him more confused.

“Okay,” he said slowly, leaning back against the air vent.

“I should start again. See, there's a version of you that’s in trouble,” she explained.

“Version of me?”

“Miguel-” “Who?” “He wasn’t right about the Spider-Verse. Or timelines. And you’re a version of the Miles I know but you both know me. Weird, right? And I figured my band would need more backup and who better to help Miles than Miles, right?”

Miles squinted at her, vaguely wondering if he should be offended that he was only now learning about all this. When it had been so long since he had seen any of them, but only now he was being called upon and only to help another version of… himself.

“Do I need to go through one of those portals?” he asked instead. “If so, I need to let my parents know.”

“Why? Isn’t it one of your nights at your dorm?” Gwen asked, pressing buttons on the watch he was only now noticing. The watch looked like it had come out of some weird punk fever dream.

“It is, but they- well they know about my identity,” Miles explained. “Everyone does.”

At the owlish look she gave him, he just shrugged. “Your secret identity got revealed?” She whispered, vaguely horrified.

“By Kravinoff. It was a whole thing,” he said, as nonchalant as he could be. He dug his communicator out of a hidden pocket, shooting a message off to Ganke, Mamá, and Dad saying he was going to be gone for a bit, but he was okay.

With that done, he pulled his mask on. “Ready when you are.”

“You’ll come help Miles? Come help you?” Gwen asked.

Miles grinned. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

Hi everyone!

This story now has a sequel! Click on the next part of this series to enjoy the first chapter! I'm super excited to start sharing it with you all and I hope you enjoy it!