Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Spidey!”

Miles pauses.

“Spidey! Spidey! Hey!” 

It’s a little girl. She’s got two space buns stretching out a black and red Spider-man mask. His colours. The mask doesn’t even reach her eyes. Too much hair. Miles gets it. Without hammerspace he’d probably look just like her. She’s waving excitedly.

Miles waves back after a moment of deliberation. He’s not great with kids.

“Hey…” Little girl sounds bad, condescending. Kid, well that’s not much better. “Spidey,” he finishes. 

She giggles, “I’m not Spidey, you’re Spidey.”

Miles shrugs a shoulder, waving an arm out, “what if we’re all Spideys? What if you’re me, and I’m you? ”

The girl blinks. “You’re weird.”

Well that’s rude. Super rude actually. “Weirdness,” Miles starts, “is subjective.”

“Can you— can you just drop me off at the station, man?”

Miles turns to the thief that he’s currently sitting on. Oh yeah. The guy’s webbed upside down to the side of a McDonald's. Can’t be comfortable, by the look on his face. But then again, stealing from old ladies is kinda low. He deserves it. Miles stands up, feet automatically sticking to the building.

“Kinda in the middle of something, man,” Miles dismisses him, and then because he can’t help himself, “just hang tight.” 

“Do you poop webs?”

Miles blinks down— or well, sideways?— at the little girl. “What?”

“Do you poop webs like real spiders?”

“Spiders don’t— no, I do not. And don’t go telling anyone that I do,” he points a finger sternly. Miles has had enough of New York’s theories. Twitter is his number one enemy at the moment, and it doesn’t need any more ammo. After that baby powder scandal, he’s been walking on a thin line, and shitting webs is just too much.

She presses a finger to her lips, grinning. “I’m good at secrets.”

“No, no. Not a secret, because it’s not true.” God, kids. 

“I know Santa isn’t real, but I didn’t tell mami and papi and we still put cookies under the tree because I want to eat them. They think it’s Santa, but it’s me. Eating allllll the cookies.” she continues on like it’s a mark of her trustworthiness. Maybe it is, actually. 

“That’s… interesting. But I don’t condone lying to your parents. Or anyone. I am against lying. Lying is wrong,” Miles says, maybe a little louder than necessary, but listen, if someone’s got a camera out he needs to be prepared.

The girl scrunches up her nose at him. “I thought you were cooler.”

Woah, woah, woah. Hold the hell up. “Um?” Miles frowns. “I am cool. I’m the coolest, man. Who’s cooler than me, huh?”

“Micheal B Jordan,” she replies immediately, as if she had that comeback on the back burner for a while.

He scoffs, and tries not to pout. “Okay. One guy. That was an unfair comparison, actually. So, yeah. Really unfair. Need to work on your comparisons. Anyways, I’m cooler than him,” he juts a thumb over to the thief.

The girl gives him a look, full of judgement. “He’s a bad guy. He’s goin’ ta jail.”

“She’s right,” the thief shrugs a little.

“Shut up, man,” Miles says, and then, because he’s feeling a little offended, webs the guy’s mouth shut.

“That was mean,” the girl comments.

Yeah? Well, you’re mean, Miles wants to refute childishly before he remembers he’s talking to an elementary student. 

“He’s a criminal,” Miles crosses his arms before scowling. “Don’t you have, like, homework to do?”

“Don’t you?” The girl raises a bushy eyebrow. 

“Wha– why—” Miles sputters, and then clears his throat, voice deepening. “Why would I have homework? Finished school before you were even born.”

“Sureeeee,” the little girl hums, twirling a curl by her hair. 

Miles frowns. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say it like what?” She blinks.

“Like— like,” Miles waves his arms around. “Like that.”

“You’re super weird.”

It’s not right to bully kids. It’s not right to bully kids. Bad for their self-esteem. The old Spider-man had a campaign against bullying. It’s morally wrong. It’s cruel. Miles shouldn’t bully children. No bullying. It’s not good, Miles.

“And you’re…” Miles starts.

She stares up at him.

Miles exhales with a huff, “why are you even here? I’m kinda in the middle of something?” He gestures to the thief, who rolls his eyes.

“Oh!” Her eyes go wide, and then she breaks into a grin. She’s got two front teeth missing. “Mami got me the best markers in the world. With the entire rainbow. Every single colour ever. Even periwinkle.”

“Periwinkle is nice,” Miles agrees mildly. “But I don’t—”

“This is for you!”

It’s a drawing. A4 paper, nothing fancy. It flops awkwardly the longer she holds it out. Her grin falters, turning shy. Miles takes it quickly. Wow, it really does have the whole rainbow. He looks down at his own suit with a squint.

“This isn’t pink, actually, it’s more of a bright red.”

“But pink is better,” she refutes.

Miles makes a small “eh,” which is short for you’re wrong, but I’m not gonna argue with a five year-old.

“Do y’like it?”

It’s cute. She was pretty good at colouring within the lines, he’ll give her that. There’s a stick drawing of the little girl holding hands with him. And two other people. 

“These your parents?”

“Mhm,” she beams, “mami and papi like you too! You’re our favourite hero.”

“Really?” His voice cracks, just a little.

Okay, Miles isn’t made of stone, give him a break. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And he’s an emotionally intelligent guy. Of course he’s going to feel moved.

“Really, really,” she nods.

At the bottom of the drawing, in a childish scrawl it says:

Thank you for saving us Spider-man!!! 

There’s a little smiley face next to it.

That’s hella' cute.

“Thanks, Spidey,” he smiles, and hopes it shows through his mask. 

_____

This whole Spider-man gig has been pretty smooth sailing for Miles. Like, total easy stuff.

If you ignore the nights he lays awake, wondering, about a grave in the middle of New York. Thinking, about a man who was everything he’ll probably never be. Pondering, that maybe, he’s not as cut out for the whole vigilante shtick as he thought he was. Praying, that one day, this city will look at him, and not see the ghost of someone else.

If you ignore the nights where he trails underground after patrol, to a tunnel, and sits. If you ignore the way he crouches down onto his knees, and stares. At the graffiti. At the smudge in the left corner of the wall from where he’d tripped over his own shoelaces and Uncle Aaron had laughed and then chucked him a new can of paint. If you ignore the way he closes his eyes, and pretends, that the man is still beside him. 

If you ignore the nights where Miles can’t stop fumbling, mistake after mistake. The nights where he lets go of his webs too early and dives headfirst into Brooklyn's concrete. The nights he spends alone, nursing a sprained wrist and staring up at the moon. The nights where he doesn’t save everyone, and it haunts him for the rest of the week— month— year (his life, it’ll haunt him for the rest of his life).

If you ignore stuff like that, then it’s pretty cool, to be Spider-man. 

_____

“Close the window behind you,” Ganke orders, eyes pinned to his monitor.

“If I close the window, I can’t get in, man.”

“There’s a draft.”

Miles scowls, “d’you want me banging the window at 4AM? Because I’ll wake you up. I’ll do it.”

“I don’t sleep,” Ganke rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, man,” Miles huffs as he sticks one leg out the window.

“Bring back Cinnabons.”

“Uh, I’m fighting crime—”

“Multitask. Also, robbery by the bakery.”

“You’re so—”

“Stay safe, dude. Remember Cinnabons.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Miles rolls his eyes.

_____

Two robberies, one attempt at assault, one break in, and a car chase later, Miles sits on the edge of a skyscraper. He lets his legs dangle, and stares, up at the sky. It’s kinda chilly. He should’ve gotten Aunt May to insulate his suit before she left. Better yet, he should’ve asked for materials, before she packed up all her stuff into the van. Or at least, he should’ve told her to leave a couple suits behind, just in case. Maybe, he should’ve begged her to stay—

Whatever. Spiders are cold-blooded, anyway.

He takes a bite of his cinnamon roll, mask by his nose. It’s still warm, which is nice.  

If Peter B were here, he’d make a total mess. He was a real messy eater— like, Miles lost his appetite just watching him. No manners, that guy. He smiles a little. Remembers sitting in that diner, the smell of greasy burgers and soggy fries sticking to the bottom of his tray. The man across from him, a cross-hatch of heroism and failure, scruffy faced, yes, but with steady eyes. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” Peter B had blinked at him.

Suddenly nauseous, Miles puts the cinnamon roll back, closing the box. 

He had a big lunch, is all.

“Fire! Someone call 911! ”

Well, duty calls.

Miles leaps off of the building into a practised dive. 

_____

It’s pretty standard stuff: group of four or so low level villains in a shady section of Brooklyn trying to blow up the city with explosives. Miles has to deal with this kinda thing every month like clockwork— he doesn’t know what it is about New York, but man, apparently everyone wants to see it go up in flames.  

They’re dressed in neon, though, which is an interesting choice of discrete villainous wear.

“Up we go,” Miles pulls on a web and one of the masked bombers is yanked off of their feet and hung upside down from a lamp post nearby, looking a little like a festive decoration with their bright green jacket. 

“Y’know, it’s like you guys never learn,” he muses idly, avoiding a knife to the stomach. Who brings knives to a fight nowadays anyway? “Like, three weeks ago, those two arsonists did the exact same thing that you’re doing now, and they failed. Sooooo,” there’s some icing stuck to his teeth. Why is Cinnabon’s stuff so sticky? “I’m just— I’m really struggling here, guys, really struggling, to understand how you’re gonna win this one.”

“Does he ever stop talking?”

“On occasion,” Miles shrugs and then bends a good 180 degrees to avoid a crowbar to the head. Seriously, what kind of weapon do these guys—

“Boss wants him alive,” one of them says. Which is hilarious, actually. Miles’ spider sense is working part-time at most , in fact, he doesn’t even need it— not to stroke his own ego or anything, but this is so easy it’s almost boring. In fact, it is boring. There are so many other things he could be doing right now. Sleeping. Eating. Scrolling on his phone. 

“Time to wrap this up,” Miles decides, “I got a roommate— I mean,” he deepens his voice, “a family waiting on me. Kids. I got kids. A wife. The whole nuclear set-up.”

He’s really been trying to sell this whole grown man in his late twenties/thirties persona. Miles thinks it’s working— his dad hasn’t suspected a thing. Which is great. It also helps that he’s gotten kinda jacked lately, like, real ‘ muscley’. Ask Ganke. Actually, no, ask his mum. She’ll tell you. Trust him.

These guys aren’t the talking type, they’re more of the grunt and punch type. Three of them try to ambush him at once, which is super unfair honestly, so it’s only fair that Miles shoots a web straight onto one of their chests and then yanks until they all fall into each other like dominoes and go sprawling across the concrete. 

Miles dusts off his hands, and gives a nonchalant (read: douchey) little shrug. “Wasn’t personal guys,” he hums, “just, y’know, my duty. As a hero. New York’s hero.” 

“You’ll… never be Spider-man,” one of them comments unnecessarily.

Miles shifts. Scoffs. Rolls his shoulders and his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re one of those I miss the old Spidey people. I’m not gonna stop jus’ cause you don’t think I’m good enough.”

“You’ll never be good enough.”

Okay, Miles is over this. Like, for real now. It’s always the ones who can’t land a hit on him that have the most to say. Whatever. Miles doesn’t care. Really. He doesn’t. Everything they try to insult him with— he’s already said to himself. It’s nothing new: blah, blah, you’re nothing like the old Spider-man; Blah, blah, you’re not a real hero; Blah, blah, I miss the old Spidey, he was so much better. Blah, blah, blah.

Well guess what?

Miles misses him too.

He misses him too, but at least he doesn’t spend all his time thinking about what’s gone— what’s dead. At least he’s trying to do good, to hold the mantle the way he thinks Peter would have wanted. At least he’s the one putting on the mask every night and not the one wasting his time complaining about shit that will never change. 

Miles stopped complaining the day he was forced to watch a get-up-and-go hero turn into a twenty-six year-old grad student— the immortal turned painfully, morbidly mortal.

It was a sudden growth spurt. He skipped a year— two, maybe three. His bones weren’t the only things that stretched and grew and adapted with the bite of that spider. Miles took the bypass key from Peter and missed his fifteenth birthday. Probably his sixteenth, too. Miles grew, but to a size that no shoe could ever properly fit. Not an adult, not a teenager. Something in between. Something lonely. Something necessary.

Growing pains happen to the best of us, Miles thinks. He knows it’s nothing personal, despite the way it feels targeted: the death of Spider-man, him as the sole witness; the death of his uncle, the only witness again. It stings, in places other than his shins and biceps. It is what it is, though. He’s sure it was the same for Gwen, and Peni— losing a best friend, losing a father. Tough shit. He knows he’s not the only one pulling at a suit that often feels too big. 

Which is why he patrols every night and completes his physics homework an hour before it’s due the next morning; makes up the crappiest of excuses to skip Spanish and stops a runaway train from killing over forty people; trades in a restful eight hours of sleep for a measly three so that the lady two blocks over can make it back to her apartment safe and sound. 

And yeah, alright, maybe sometimes he has a little bit of a grudge against New York and the way they treat him— against a lot of things, actually. But there’s nothing he can do about it except prove to everyone (and himself. Especially himself) that he’s worthy of wearing the suit. 

Miles puts on the mask every day, and little by little, inch by inch, it’s starting to fit. These things just take time, he knows. 

So he won’t take shit from these know–it–alls who think they know him. Miles knows what he’s about, what he stands for and that’s that.

“Whatever you say, man,” Miles says, and then flicks his wrist.

They struggle, but these webs are tough— won’t dissolve for another three or so hours. 

Miles crouches down onto his knees in front of them. “Any of you got a pen? No?” They don’t answer, of course. Mouths webbed shut. “I just…” Miles finds a stray match on the ground. Perfect. “Just wanna write the cops a little…” he squints in concentration. “Stay still dude!” He admonishes when one of them tries to kick out at him. “Just…. There. Nice.”

He stands up, satisfied.

The three bombers are stuck to each other, webs circling their torsos. The guy in the middle has a message stuck onto the collar of his neon jacket. 

Spidey was here! You’re welcome (^_^)7

Miles has gotten pretty good at drawing those faces. His dad always gets this Look on his face whenever he reads the notes, and it honestly makes Miles’ day— so it’s become a little running gag between them (with one unwilling participant). He's even made a little pocket in his suit to carry around Sticky Notes. He’d love to leave his tags on the criminals instead, but that’s a little bit too bait. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Miles holds his hands up in surrender. “If anything, this is all your fault for y’know, trying to blow up the city. Kinda evil stuff, man.”

When they don’t reply, Miles continues, “see? You guys agree. You do. That’s why you’re not saying anything.”

Silence.

Tough crowd, these ones.

“Anyways,” Miles clears his throat before finger-gunning. “I’mma leave you to it. Police will be here soon, don't worry. Say hi to your boss for me— or don’t, actually. You’re all goin’ to jail.”

Miles scratches an itch under his chin, idly thinking that maybe he should’ve taken Peter B’s advice more seriously. This suit is seriously starting to chafe in places that it shouldn’t. Where did he leave the Cinnabon pack again? Was it that building? Or the one next to it? Miles doesn’t want to buy a whole new box. They’re not cheap, and he already asked his dad for money last week.

His phone buzzes.

Miles rolls his eyes. This guy’s priorities are so whack.

Nothing wrong with a little guilt-tripping.

Never mind. Miles locks his phone with a scowl. Why couldn’t he have a normal guy in the chair? Like— like, er, that kid from Kim Possible. Wade. He was nice, he was cool. Helpful. Or maybe someone like Alfred Pennyworth. Now that would be sick. Miles wishes he was Batman. 

Miles sighs and readies his wrists. Time to search for a half-eaten box of cinnamon rolls at five o’clock in the morning. Real vigilante-type shit.

He shoots a web to the nearest rooftop and breaks into a sprint, heels slamming into the concrete as he leaps and—

SNAP!

His chest hollows, an aborted gasp trapped somewhere between his teeth and his tongue. Miles ducks and rolls seconds before he hits the ground— spider-sense going haywire as he slams into a block of apartments, crumbling bricks digging into his shoulder.

What the fuck.

His web broke. No, his web was broken— snapped in half.

“Wh—” He chokes out, and then has to quite literally back-flip off of the building to avoid a clawed hit to the stomach. 

It’s a scramble. His spider-sense is the only thing keeping him on his feet— that split second move before they strike at him. Turn and he evades a kick to the jaw. Duck and he doesn’t lose his head. Slide and he narrowly misses an uppercut to his chin.

Run and well, he runs.

Whoever this person is, they’re fucking slick with it. Fast, smooth movements. Planned movements. Where Miles jumps headfirst and figures out the landing midair, they seem to be constantly calculating three steps ahead. 

He pushes off of one building to another in a practiced zig-zag and breaks into a sprint across the bricks— carefully avoiding the windows, because Miles has smashed one too many in his haste. Whoever this is, they may be swift but they’re not a Spider. Miles can outrun them. Miles can shake them off.

Except, apparently he can’t.  

They can hover. Hover. Bright purple lights up beneath their trainers in a mimicry of comet fireworks. Similar to jets, they propel the masked chaser forward until they’re eating the distance between them in just a few jumps. That’s unfair. Really, really unfair.

Miles is going to lose. 

He can’t keep his webs straight and he’s tripped over his own legs at least three times. He’s off his game. He’s off his game because he wasn’t prepared— because—

Because he’d never be prepared for the sight of his uncle’s claws reanimated. 

That shade of purple, he’d never mistake it. There’s a Prowler chasing after him. It’s not his uncle (he’s dead, he’s dead). It can’t be. It’s someone else. Miles isn’t curious enough to find out. He’d rather let the cat live, this time around. He’d rather run and sprint and jump like a coward than square his shoulders and fight this stranger.

Regardless, he’s going to lose. And losing isn’t cheap when you’re Spider-man. It’ll cost him. It’s cost him lives before— this time it might be his own.

Miles trips.

Miles trips and he falls, right off of a ten-story apartment’s roof. 

He’s fallen like this before— managed to hit everything he possibly could on the way down, ribs aching and a crushed bypass key beneath his hips. That had hurt. That was painful. That was nasty. What stung the most, though, was the sound of failure, in the rapid beating of his heart. He’d thought I can’t stop the collider. I’m going to break my promise to Peter. I wish that spider never bit me.

Miles hears the familiar echo of his own heart thudding in his skull. Failure. This is failure. This is him letting New York down because he’d made a mistake and now he’s too scared, too paralysed with fear to even save himself. His web-shooters aren’t broken. Miles could lift his arm and flick his wrist. He could. His spider-sense is begging him to.

But he’s frozen.

He’s so scared.

Not of the fall. No, not the fall. Something else. Someone else. 

Your uncle, coming back. Your uncle’s last wishes personified. Someone with his gear, his helmet, his arm. Someone looking for revenge. Someone who might deserve to kill you, because you killed your uncle. You did. And then you painted over it and pretended everything was fine, but it’s not fine. It was never fine. Your uncle died because of you, and not even your dad knows.

Shit. Miles is terrified.

Something slams into him. 

Like, slams. It knocks the air out of him. A person. A person rolls right into him and they go tumbling. It breaks his fall into segments, a thud here, a clunk there. Miles hisses through his teeth as the back of his head crashes into the metal bars of a fire escape. 

His spine twinges when he finally hits the ground at last, landing awkwardly on his left hip bone. He gets to his elbows with shaky palms only to be shoved back onto the concrete in nanoseconds. 

There’s a claw digging into his collarbone. Miles’ ears ring. He stares up into the eyes of a helmet that is familiar and foreign all at once. Schrodinger’s helmet: your uncle’s; a stranger’s. Dead, alive. 

The stranger tilts their head and says, distorted and crackling:

“You’ve been a pain to catch.”

Miles tries to breathe, chest stuttering. He squints, “...I try?”

“I’m not here to play games.”

Yeah, cause Miles is totally playing around right now. Right. 

“I dunno why you’re tryna kill me but—”

“Shut up—”

That’s super rude.

“You’re going to answer my questions if you want to live.”

Cool. Classic villain stakes. Miles can work with this.

“Su–sure man,” he tries to stifle a cough because damn, his lungs are working overtime right now. “Ask away.” 

This is great actually. The time where the villains do their little spiel is when Miles gets his best work done— he’ll formulate a plan while this terribly threatening Prowler copy starts interrogating him. 

“Where is the collider that Wilson Fisk created?”

Woah. What?

Miles blinks.

That is not a great question. That’s a terrible question. That’s— that’s— 

(“Get rid of the body.”)

(“The real Spider-man couldn’t even beat me.”)

(“You’re nothing.”)

Miles swallows down a mouthful of bile. “Wilson Fisk’s in jail, man.”

“The collider. Where is it?”

No, Miles isn’t doing this shit again. There’s no way.

Miles hardens his eyes into a glare. “Gone. Destroyed. I destroyed it, so whatever you want— you’re not gonna find it.”

The claw tightens, his suit tears. 

The stranger in his uncle’s colours leans in close and says:

“You’re going to rebuild it.”

It’s selfishness that gets him to his feet. Miles could pretend that he’s fighting for Brooklyn, New York. Righteousness is an easy jacket to wear— the police rarely take it off. You can effortlessly turn a punch into a shield, if you claim worthiness. 

Miles doesn’t pretend. 

This has nothing to do with his integrity, nor his morality. It has everything to do with him. It’s pure selfishness, that has him kicking off into the air, wrists flourishing as he web-shoots that clawed arm and pulls. It’s entirely self-serving, the way he slams his forehead into the helmet hard enough for the both of them to go tumbling. It’s utterly egocentric, how he yanks off that claw of metal and smashes it against the ageing bricks of an old cake shop. 

Miles is scared. Miles is seething. Miles refuses to go through any of it again. No more colliders. No more dead uncles. No more Wilson Fisks. No more lost friends.

No. More. Dead. Heroes.

Miles lets the claw fall to the ground in a mangled heap. He stands tall. He takes a step, then another, towards the foreign Prowler.

He says:

“I ain’t building shit.”

And he fucking means it.

The Prowler’s hand is smaller than Miles thought it’d be. He was imagining large palms, long fingers (Uncle Aaron, Uncle Aaron). Instead it’s slim, rough but clumsy-looking, in a way that only teenagers can manage. 

Miles stares.

The Prowler gets to their feet. 

The metal of their helmet has chipped away, revealing a single brown eye. The stranger says, “you have to rebuild it.”

And Miles stares. They’re shorter than him, not by much but— but Uncle Aaron was real tall. They’re pretty skinny, like him. Knobbly elbows, long legs. Teenager. Teenager. Okay, okay. Miles can work with this. 

“Why?” He questions, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

The Prowler stares back at him like he’s stupid. “Because,” their teeth sound gritted. Their voice is unmodulated now— still low, but there’s a drawl to it. Spanish. “I need it.”

Miles crosses his arms, chest puffing, “for what?” He interrogates, voice deepening into what he hopes is an intimidating timbre. 

The Prowler takes a step forward, raising a fist before they pause— clearly realising that their main weapon is lying crushed on the ground. 

Miles raises an eyebrow, and hopes it shows through his mask.

“For. What?” He repeats.

The Prowler’s shoulders slump, just a little. “Needa' get outta here,” they say, quick and stilted.

Miles frowns.

Hold on.

He shifts on his feet, squints. Prowler suit, but clearly not his uncle. Okay. Okay. Got it. “You’re not from here… Are you?”

“I’m not,” the Prowler’s words are sharp, hostile. “You need to send me back.”

Woah, woah, woah. Miles holds up his hands, “I— I can’t—”

“You can. You will, ” the Prowler stalks up to him until they’re eye to eye, shoulders taut. “You. Will.”

Miles swallows. This is way above his pay grade— he doesn’t even get paid actually. This is Peter B’s typa’ stuff. Spider gang typa’ stuff. Not Miles on his own typa’ stuff. How the hell is he meant to…?

“Who even are you?” Miles questions instead, because there’s a lot going through his head right now, but he really needs to know who he’s dealing with. A teenage version of Uncle Aaron might actually be the end of him— there’s a lot Miles can handle, but not that.

The Prowler stares, clearly debating something. 

When they don’t reply, Miles waves out a palm. “Can’t send you back to wherever you came from if I don’t even know who you are,” he bullshits, and prays it works. 

The Prowler shifts, and Miles is pretty sure they kiss their teeth— which is rude— but then there’s a short mechanical whirring noise and the helmet opens up in two smooth slides.

Miles stares.

Oh shit.

His own eyes stare back at him.

You can’t be serious. You really, really, can’t be serious.

The Prowler says:

“I’m Miles Morales.”

And Miles lets out a long-suffering sigh, head tilted to the sky.

He thought this shit was Peter Parker exclusive.

Miles tugs at the bottom of his mask and pulls.

“Yeah, me too, man.”

Weird-Alternate-Villain-Miles’ eyes widen. “What the hell.”

Literally, dude.

Miles’ phone vibrates. He takes it out. 

“Er,” Miles stares back at well, himself and tries not to look like he feels — which is seriously stressed, high-key panicking, and more than a little irritated. “Let’s sort this out back at my dorm— our dorm? Is it—? Do you—? Let’s just go,” he decides.

Weird-Miles stares. His jaw is sharper, which is kinda unfair. He looks scarier too. Why doesn’t Miles look like that? 

“...Okay,” the doppelganger agrees at last.

“Cool,” Miles nods, and feels anything but.

“Cool,” Other-Miles echoes.

This is going to go great.

Chapter Text

Miles is thinking a lot of thoughts. 

Maybe too many. His first thought is something along the lines of I never even considered having a doppelganger and I’m not nearly as thrilled by this discovery as I probably should be— because, well, the guy is definitely him but also he’s definitely not. Like, really not.  

His second, third and fourth thoughts are:

Those braids are tough— should I get some?

Are those high-tech Jordans?

Why is he the Prowler? 

The fourth is a great question, actually.

Miles wants to interrogate. He wants to grab this look-alike by the shoulders, and glare into his own eyes, and question why? In what world, would he ever don a suit like that? What version of him, would work for a guy like Wilson Fisk? Don’t get him wrong, Miles loved his uncle. Miles loves his uncle. But he’d never— his eyes dart down to the mangled claw by their feet— he’d never follow the man down a road like that. 

It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t ever—

This boy may have his eyes, but he’s not Miles Morales. 

Miles Morales is Spider-man. Spider-man, is Miles Morales. Lately, it’s become difficult to see where the line is drawn. Maybe, he never drew it. 

There’s a lot he wants to say, or rather, question, but Miles finds it hard to voice a single thought. Something about this boy has him hesitating. Maybe it’s his stance— taut shoulders, but an easy spine. Nonchalance and vigilance intertwined. Maybe it’s his hands— that look like his own, but seem to curl into fists much quicker. Maybe, it’s his eyes.

They’re staring. The doppelganger is scrutinising him. Up and down. Miles wonders what he finds, or perhaps, what he doesn’t. His skin crawls. The collar of his suit starts to itch. He has the sudden urge to pull his mask back down.

Miles wants to say, who are you really?

Instead he says:

“You don’t have, like, a hoodie? Or something? You’re lookin’ kinda…”

He trails off with a stare, rocking back on his heels awkwardly. 

His doppelganger stares back.

“Loud,” he finishes. 

“Loud,” the look-alike repeats tonelessly. “I look loud.”

“Uh, yeah, man,” Miles tries to keep his tone level and not on the edge of hysteria.

He doesn’t like the judgement in the doppelganger’s eyes. He’s not even wrong. New Yorkers can spot a villain from miles (ha) away, and this guy is a walking, talking red flag. Like, seriously. Even without the mask, that flashy ass jacket is gonna have the cops on them in minutes— and Miles cannot deal with his dad right now. The more he thinks about it, the more insane it starts to feel. How the hell is he gonna sneak this guy into the dorm? The sun is rising. It’s gonna look sketchy as shit.

The doppelganger gives him a look. The kind of look that Miles gives when he thinks someone is being stupid. Okay, rude. “What?” Miles raises both eyebrows, hands raising in a half-hearted surrender. “You look like you’re gonna shoot up the bloc–”

“There’s no way you’re talkin,” the look-alike cuts him off with a glare.

Miles sputters. “Huh?”

“I said there’s no way you’re talkin’ with your onesie wearin’ ass,” the guy gives him a deliberate once-over.

Okay, what the hell. Miles tries not to let the irritation show on his face, because he really doesn’t want this doppelganger to think he’s hit a nerve. There’s nothing wrong with his suit. It’s sick. It’s fresh. Black and red is a combo, you hear him? A combo. New Yorkers love it (most of them, anyway). Who does this guy think he is? 

“Not a onesie,” he bites out through a stiff smile. “It’s a suit. Spandex. Actually kinda expensive to make.. High tech— you wouldn’t get it,” he gives a pointed glance at the stupid purple-collared jacket. 

The doppelganger raises one eyebrow condescendingly, like he doesn’t believe a word coming out of Miles’ mouth.

Deep breaths, Miles. Not a onesie. Not a onesie. This guy’s just an idiot.

“Right,” the look-alike drawls.

“Is that Spider-man?”

“Holy shit, it is. Who’s that other guy?”

Dammit. Miles tugs his mask back down and tries not to sigh. It’s barely 6AM, why are there even people walking around? Typical New Yorkers. “We needa’ get out of here. Like, now. No hoodie? What about a coat?” He tries again.

“Sure,” the doppelganger says with an unreadable expression, “got one in my suitcase.”

Miles blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

“ Si,” yes. “Packed up all my shit in a suitcase ‘night before I was thrown here.”

“That’s— that’s great, actually,” Miles says, honestly a little surprised because— wait a minute. “Hold on, how’d you know to bring clothes— did— did you know you were gonna end up in my universe? Wait— did you choose to come here?”

The doppelganger gives him a stare.

Miles blinks.

The doppelganger gives a slow blink back.

“You’re playin’ with me,” Miles realises, and then tries not to pout as his shoulders slump. “Stop it, man. I’m bein’ serious.”

“Stop askin’ stupid-ass questions.”

That’s it, Miles hates this guy. It’s official. 

“Whatever, man,” Miles waves out his hands in exasperation. “Run around lookin’ like that for all I care,” he scowls, “when you’re suddenly bein’ chased by fifty cop cars, it ain’t my problem.” A little bit of exaggeration there, but who cares. Sue him.

The look-alike shifts, jaw clenching. “How far’s your dorm?”

Ten minutes with Miles’ swinging. Thirty minutes by foot. Probably fifteen minutes with those stupid hover shoes the guy’s got on. 

“An hour,” Miles says, crossing his arms.

The doppelganger squints, clearing trying to gauge whether or not he’s telling the truth. Miles doesn’t move a muscle— his mami says he fidgets when he lies.  

“You’re full of shit,” the look-alike deduces after a second.

What the hell.

“I’m not,” Miles protests. “How would you know?”

“Because I’m not an idiot, idiot.” Idiyat. That accent— it follows this guy’s every other word. The Puerto Rican drawl that he grew out of, the one his mami still carries. It’s tinged with that New Yorker roundness, yes, but the Spanish is so much thicker than Miles’. For some reason, this makes him feel uneasy. 

“Listen, dude,” Miles places his hands on his hips. “I don’t care if you’re ‘me’, I’m not havin’ you crawl through my window looking like that. I don’t care how stealthy you are— it’s not dark anymore and it’s gonna look suspicious. Way too obvious, man. You’ll get us caught.” 

The doppelganger’s eyebrow twitches, jaw tight. 

“What’s your plan then, tarado?” Fool. 

_____

“I’m not wearin’ this shit.”

“Hey, man, it’s the cheapest one.”

“Dejar de joder.” Cut the crap.

“Uh, no hablo inglés.”

“That don’t even make sense.”

“Just wear it, dude.”

“Ain’t no way.”

“Spidey!”

Shit.

Miles freezes, hoodie drooping in his hands. He recognises that voice. What the hell , man. Who goes to Walmart at half six in the morning?

“Spidey, Spidey! Hey!”

He pivots on his heel and grins, wide and fake, despite his mask covering it up anyway. “Hey… Spidey.”

The little girl is wearing the same stretched-out mask and a ridiculously large puffer jacket. She frowns, “I told you I’m not Spidey, you’re Spidey. Remember?”

“When you get to my age,” Miles deepens his voice, “your memory starts to get a little fuzzy.”

The girl narrows her eyes. “Sureeeeee.”

“Stop saying it like that,” Miles scowls.

“Like what—”

“Like that—”

“Who’s he?” She cuts him off with wide, curious eyes. Attention span reaching its maximum of all three and a half seconds.

Miles almost forgot his asshole of a doppelganger was beside him. Almost. Nearly. Barely. Okay, he didn’t forget. It’s kinda difficult to forget something like that. Like, incredibly difficult. Annoyingly difficult. 

“He’s…” Miles trails off, turning to his look-alike for help.

The guy just stares back at him. Fucking asshole.

“Homeless,” Miles finishes. “Really, really homeless. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’m buying him some clothes. This hoodie, actually,” he holds the pink thing up. “He loves it so much he's speechless.”

The murderous intent is radiating off of the doppelganger in waves. Miles ignores it.

“I LOVE pink!” The girl screams, puffy cheeks rising with a toothy grin.  She clasps her hands together, the sleeves of the coat falling over her fingers. “It’s my favourite. That’s a super cool hoodie. It’s got Pinkie Pie too! She’s not my bestest. I love Rainbow Dash. But— but Pinkie Pie is good too, if she is your favourite?” She blinks up at his doppelganger, head tilted.

Miles coughs into his elbow to mask a laugh.

“...she’s cool, but I prefer Fluttershy,” the doppelganger replies, kneeling down on one knee to talk eye-to-eye. Miles does a double-take. Huh?

The girl’s eyes widen even more— which is a feat in itself. “She’s my second favourite. After Applejack. Wait— uh, I mean, number three.”

“Your third favourite,” the doppelganger corrects gently.

“My third favourite,” she nods, beaming. “You should get a Fluttershy hoodie next. Or— or maybe a— a everyone one. All of them together.”

“That’s a good idea,” the doppelganger hums, like he’s actually considering it. What the hell is happening?

“I have a pink one like that one at home,” she continues on, pointing to the hoodie in Miles’ hands. “So— so you gotta get that one and then— and then we’ll be matching. That’s cool right? Spidey needsa’ get one too. Then– then we’ll be three Spideys. In pink. That’s— that’s amazing.”

Her train of thought is impressive, seriously. “Uh, I don’t think—” Miles starts, only to be cut off.

“Smart thinker, chiquita,” little one, his doppelganger praises. “Spidey needs one too, si?”

“Yes! Yes!” She claps her hands.

This mother fu-

“You heard her,” the asshole turns to him, mouth curling.

_____

“Um, that’ll, uh… twenty-two—sorry, I mean twenty-four dollars. Ca— cash or card?” The cashier struggles, eyes darting to and fro. Miles doesn’t blame her, if he’s honest. Spider-man doesn’t shop at Walmart. Spider-man doesn’t shop at all, actually. Not really a heroic activity, unless it’s like, stopping a robbery, or something. You get the point.

“Cash,” Miles sighs, and then hands over two twenty dollar bills. They were cheap, he’ll admit, but that doesn’t make up for the fact that he now has a bright pink Pinkie Pie hoodie that’ll inevitably fall to the bottom of his closet. Ain’t no way he’s ever wearing it out— the second someone catches him slipping he’ll never hear the end of it. Especially if his dad sees it. Urgh. Miles can hear the man’s voice in his head: Heh, ponies, huh? That’s what’s in with you kids nowadays? I see you, son. Now back in my day…  

Absolutely not.

It’s all this asshole’s fault. 

Miles doesn’t want a doppelganger anymore. Scratch that, he never did. This shit is overrated as hell. Why couldn’t he have a cool alternate him? Why’s he stuck with some villainous purple-wearing dick of a look-alike? It’s not fair.  

“This is super perfect!” the girl between them squeals. 

“Where are your parents, forreal?” Miles questions because he is fed up, and tired, and he’s got a Chemistry test at nine— that’s less than three hours away, oh god. 

“With the milks and yoghurts,” the little girl hums, pointing down to some aisle on the far end of the store.

“They’re probably super worried,” Miles stresses the vowels, and then waves his hands encouragingly. “Why don’t you go back to them, huh Spidey?”

She seems to think it over for all of two seconds. “Okay! Bye bye, Spidey. Bye bye, Spidey’s homeless friend.”

“Nos vemos,” see you, his doppelganger gives her a pat on the head.

“Bye bye,” Miles waves, shoulders slumping the moment she turns the corner. God, kids.

“You’re shit with niños,” children, the look-alike comments, like it’s an observation rather than an insult. It irritates Miles all the same.

“Shut up, man,” Miles scowls, but it’s lacklustre. He’s exhausted. That sleep deprivation is catching up. He should be in bed right now. He should’ve been in bed two hours ago, even. Instead, he’s standing inside of fucking Walmart, with a guy who has his eyes, his mouth, his skin, but clearly not what matters most— his morals. Instead, he’s standing next to the Prowler. Instead, Miles is starting to question who he really is because if—

If there’s a version of Miles that’s not Spider-man, then—

Then how much of Spider-man is actually him?

He needs to sleep. Badly.

A receipt is pushed into his palm.

“Thank you— I mean, thank you— I mean,” the cashier opens and closes her mouth. “Thanks for shopping at Walmart, have a nice day.”

On any other morning, Miles would’ve given a chipper you too! He might’ve even told her to keep the change or some shit like that. Maybe teased her a bit, played up the whole hero persona. This is not any other morning.

Miles sighs, head drooping forward:

“I’ll try.”

_____

“Don’t say shit,” his doppelganger cuts him off before Miles can get a word in. It’s not as intimidating as the guy thinks it is. No one looks intimidating with My Little Pony merch.

“Suits you,” Miles continues on, because if he’s having one of the worst mornings of his life then he shouldn’t be the only one. “Purple and pink. That’s a combo, man. Goes hard. Shoulda’ put my Uncle Aaron on that when I had the chance.” 

Miles doesn’t know why he mentions the man. Except, he does. He’s curious— no, curious isn’t even the right word for it. To be curious, is to be ignorant. Curiosity, is objective. Curiosity, was the moments before the Prowler in his uncle’s studio became his uncle, in his uncle’s studio. Those nanoseconds before you open Pandora's box. That’s curiosity. This is yearning. Hoping. Wishing. Thinking. Thinking about him never solves anything. Thinking about him is pointless, painful. Thinking about him never stops, all the same.

The doppelganger doesn’t say a word, which is its own thing in itself. This guy, he speaks without speaking. Uses his eyes a lot more than Miles ever has. There’s a certain condescension to him. Like he’s looking down on Miles. Every question he does ask, is careful— precise, leading. Motivated. So, when he says:

“Your tío rocks purple?”

The doppelganger means something else entirely. 

But Miles had already found the answer he was looking for. It leaves something bitter beneath his tongue. He doesn’t know what he was hoping for— except, he does, and he really needs to stop lying to himself. He was hoping he wasn’t the only one with a dead uncle. He was hoping that death could also leap from one universe to the next. Horrible thing to think, yeah. Doesn’t stop him from thinking it.

Miles shrugs his shoulders, a forced casual. “Occasionally,” he keeps his voice light.

There are a lot of things that you can’t hold in your hands. The water from the kitchen sink, will slip between your fingers no matter how you cup your palms. The wind that blows in through the car window, will blow past you, too. The words his uncle told him, a hand clenched over his own, are not tangible. Miles couldn’t pick them up. He couldn’t catch them mid-air. They weren’t soaked with his uncle’s blood, littered across the pavement. They weren’t anywhere, at all. Sometimes, Miles thinks he imagined them altogether.

“You’re the best of all of us, Miles. You’re on your way. Just… keep going.”

There’s no recording. No VHS tape to stick into some rusty VHS player. There’s no note. No old notebook to flick through. Those words, they reverberate around Miles’ skull because there’s nowhere else to put them. There’s nowhere to put them. There’s nowhere to put him. The version of that man that only Miles knew, the version that no one else ever witnessed.

However, there’s one thing he can do. One thing he’s been doing, for the past year and then some. 

Miles can protect it. Those words. That man. He can protect it in the only way he knows how— by hiding it. He doesn’t want anyone else to know the Uncle Aaron he knew. He doesn’t want anyone else to hear those words he said. Miles’’ll keep it close, as close as he can. These are the things that he will never share, not to his dad nor his mami, not to— not even to himself. It’s easier that way.

The doppelganger gives him a look, eyes narrowed— although, this guy’s eyes always look like that. “Cool,” the look-alike mutters.

“Cool,” Miles echoes, feeling rather hollow.

His phone buzzes.

Shit, Ganke.

Miles is half comforted by his roommate’s worry, and half exasperated because no , he didn’t die. It’s barely been a couple hours since his last reply. On second thought though, considering his night-time activities, maybe it’s not unwarranted.

There. That’s good enough.

Or not. Crap. Of course he forgot them.

There. That should do it.

Miles turns off his phone, even as it continues to buzz. If he doesn’t see it, it’s not his problem. That’s a terrible motto, actually— considering his whole vigilante shtick. Well sue him, he’s tired.

“Aight,” Miles hypes himself up, squaring his shoulders. “Here’s the plan. You’re not gonna climb up to my window,” he tells the doppelganger. “Way too risky. You’re gonna go through the doors. You look just like me, so no one’s gonna notice. We clear?”

The doppelganger gives him an unimpressed stare. “Clear,” he says at last before pulling up his hood. “Where’s your school?”

“Visions,” Miles says, “you know that one? Your univer—”

“I know it,” the look-alike’s tone is sharp, hostile.

Miles blinks. “Okay,” he says.

Is the school shit in his universe or something? Not like Miles himself enjoyed it all that much to begin with— but it’s not that bad. One of the best, even, or at least, that’s what the rankings say. The guy still looks like someone personally insulted his entire family line, jaw tight and eyebrows heavy. Whatever, Miles cannot bring himself to care right now.

“It’s just around the corner, so you go in through the front. My dorm number is thirty-two, if you knock my roommate will let you in. I’ll meet you there,” Miles rushes out, low-key starting to freak out now because this is actually happening. This is not some weird traumatic dream. He has a doppelganger. He’s going to hide said doppelganger in his dorm room for the foreseeable future. He needs to figure out a way to send doppelganger home—

That’s enough thinking.

“We good?” Miles checks, once more. A lost doppelganger is the last thing he needs.

“...Sí,” the guy mutters, looking like he’d rather shoot himself in the head than follow through with the plan. Touche. “How you gettin’ in?”

“Me?” Miles blinks and then, beneath the mask, begins to smile. A smug little thing. With days like these, it’s the silver linings you gotta pay attention to. And the silver lining in question is that he has something to one-up this asshole of a look-alike.

He says:

“Don’t worry about me, man. Worry bout’ yourself. I’m all claro,” clear.

And then turns invisible.

The doppelganger doesn’t gawk, but it’s close enough with the way his eyes widen just a little.

“Hasta luego, twin!” Miles can’t help but taunt before turning on his heel.

He’s halfway through a swing when he realises the doppelganger is still wearing that pink pony hoodie. With his face. Pretending to be him. Walking through his school hallways. He groans.  Miles can’t enjoy shit, man .

_____

Okay, he’ll admit. Miles took his time getting to his dorm. Went the long way round and all that. He’s not gonna lie. He was trying to avoid the unavoidable for as long as possible. He’s sure you understand. 

There’s a headache growing between his eyebrows as climbs up to his window.

Sleeping would be so good right now. Amazing, even. 

If he could just jump onto his bunk and ignore everything for a couple (several) more hours. 

Miles knocks on the window.

Ganke opens it immediately. 

“I need at least two packs of Cinnabons for this,” his roommate declares. His doppelganger stands by the door, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Miles flickers back into existence, invisibility shedding. He tugs his mask up.

“Dude,” he places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, solemn, and tries to level a smoulder. “I ain’t even got one.”

Chapter Text

“Soooo… you’re him. He’s you. From another dimension. He attacked you, and then threatened to kill you if you didn’t rebuild the destroyed collider that, uh, Wilson Fisk? Was that his name? Whoever that guy was made. But you can’t rebuild it because you don’t know how. So now he’s stuck here. And you want to keep him here. In our room. Until you find a way to send him home. And he’s apparently a villain. Am I missing something?”

Miles opens his mouth, and then wisely, closes it. He shakes his head.

Ganke nods, almost contemplatively. “This isn’t a bad character arc. Not as good as your origin story, but— doppelgangers are a classic. Plus he does look a little evil. Evil doppelgangers are even better. Have you seen Us? Might wanna give it a watch, just in case. There’s only one thing that I don’t understand,” the roommate leans back in his gaming chair, arms crossing.

“Uh,” Miles has a lot he wants to say about all that, but chooses to hold his tongue. “Yes?” 

“Where are my Cinnabons?”

Of course.

Miles rolls his eyes all the way to the moon. “Did you, or did you not hear what I’ve had to deal with this morning?” He throws out his arms.

“I’ve heard excuses,” Ganke raises one eyebrow.

“You—” Miles starts, pointing an angry finger at the boy, and then attempts to say every single swear word he knows all at once— which results in a sequence of intelligible cursing. 

“I hope you know there’s interest,” Ganke ignores him with a sniff, already turning back to the monitor. “Two-point-five percent,” the insufferable boy crisply informs. 

“Are you forre—”

“An hour,” Ganke finishes.

“You’re the worst guy in the chair in the entire multiverse!” Miles declares, with feeling.

Ganke shrugs, “someone has to be.”

And then the boy turns to his doppelganger, “Not actually his guy in the chair, by the way. He can’t afford me.”

“Har har,” Miles rolls his eyes again, and tries very hard not to bristle at the sight of his roommate being friendly with his look-alike. It irritates him. For some reason. He decides, very quickly, to look no further into it.

The doppelganger blinks— but it’s not how Miles blinks, wide-eyed and bewildered. It’s a slow, deliberate thing. Something between nonchalance and a complete lack of interest. Something cold, detached.

“Don’t care,” the doppelganger drawls, voice low, back propped up against the wall. 

Ganke frowns, and then places a thumb on his chin like he’s in deep thought. The gaming chair spins a little from side to side as the boy sits forward, scrutinising Miles’ look-alike with narrowed eyes.

The doppelganger raises one eyebrow, dry.

Miles has no idea what his roommate is doing, and he doesn’t really want to ask.

After a good ten seconds, which feel like half an hour, Ganke leans back, frown disappearing.

“He’s cooler than you, dude,” the boy declares, turning back to the monitor.

What.

Miles blinks. “Huh?”

“No offence but,” Ganke starts, with full offence, “he’s got it.”

“Got what?” Miles tries not to shout, because what the hell.

“It,” Ganke shrugs, tapping away at his keyboard. “He’s him, bro.”

This unfaithful piece of—

The doppelganger snorts. Miles snaps his head up to glare at the annoying asshole. The boy with his face tilts his head, gives him a look— something of a taunt, something so fucking condescending. Something that says I’m better than you.  

“Shut up,” Miles scowls, and then feels a little bit like a child. Which makes him angrier. Urgh.

“Change,” Ganke throws him his backpack with one hand, eyes still glued to the monitor which is now loading Overwatch. “You got class at nine, dude.”

Urgh.

Miles wants to cry. He wants to throw something. He’d like to hit someone— definitely not someone specific, or anything, but if they happen to look like they have a stick up their ass then—

“Dude,” Ganke says.

Miles lingers by the window, stalling on, well, everything. “My head—”

“Ibuprofen on the sink,” Ganke says.

“The shower—”

“Still has hot water.”

“Mr Stevens—”

“Is not going to let you resit. You need to take that test, man. Reports at end of the month, remember?”

“Oh yeah? Then why aren’t you—”

“I’m a genius,” Ganke lies through his teeth.

Miles gives him a look.

“I don’t have your parents,” Ganke revises.

Miles pauses. Urghhhh. His shoulders slump. “Whatever, man,” he tries not to pout. 

Ganke gives him a thumbs up.

Miles turns to his doppelganger, and attempts to level a somewhat intimidating glare. It kinda helps that he’s a bit taller than the guy— something Miles is forever smug about. “No funny business, dude,” Miles says, and then immediately wants to take it back because he sounds exactly like his dad. “Just… stay,” he orders with a pointed finger.

The doppelganger blinks at him like he doesn’t even consider Miles worth replying to. Urgh! God, Miles wants to punch this guy so bad.

“Ganke—” He starts.

“Won’t take my eyes off him, dude,” his roommate gives another thumbs up. The boy isn’t even looking at him, let alone his look-alike.

Miles sighs. Whatever. He’s tried his best, or something. 

_____

The shower actually does wonders for Miles’ mood. The hot water is so therapeutic, and his aching muscles feel so much less achy. It’s exactly what he needed. All his worries have left him. He feels great.

Is what he would say, if he’d completely lost his mind. 

The shower was mediocre at best, and Ganke was wrong, because the hot water ran out halfway through. He forgot his lotion back at the dorm, so now his knees and elbows are ashy as hell. His t-shirt is sticking to his shoulders because he didn’t dry off properly, and it’s damn uncomfortable.

That’s the least of his complaints, though.

“Friendship is magic, right?” Some stupid-ass kid from his physics class claps him on the back. 

Miles counts to ten in his head, giving a strained grin. “Haha, yeah.”

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff, Morales. S’cool, my five year-old sister likes it,” the guy laughs.

“Mmm,” Miles keeps his mouth firmly shut, because if he speaks it will not be nice. 

“It’s cool man,” the guy mistakes his silence for shame— which isn’t actually that far off— and places a hand on Miles’ shoulder, expression sombre. “Be who you are.”

Miles wants to kill himself.

He cringes out of the guy’s grip, and raises his hands in surrender as he slowly edges towards the bathroom door. “Th— thanks, dude. Appreciate it. M’just… gonna go.”

“Rep your shit, bro,” the guy gives him a salute. “Pink suits you.”

Miles has his head in his hands by the time he makes it back to his dorm. He’s never living this crap down. Never. And it’s all that asshole’s fault. Urgh!

_____

Miles sort of expects to come back to his room on fire and/or blown to pieces. He’s not sure how the doppelganger would manage it— but he knows better than to underestimate the abilities of someone operating under pure spite. 

So, when he opens the door and sees the room exactly as he left it, Miles feels a little, well, put out. Honestly, he was kinda looking for something to complain about—- great, now he sounds like the average Twitter user.

The doppelganger is standing next to Ganke’s desk, hands in the pockets of that cursed pony hoodie. Ganke is playing Fortnite now. And he’s talking to the doppelganger. About the game. Miles frowns. What the hell.

“This is how you build. Keyboard is easier than controller.”

“...Right.”

“You can spot noobs by how they build. They’re usually shit.”

“Uh huh.”

“And if you press this. See that?”

“Cool.”

“I’m basically a Fortnite veteran at this point—”

“What the hell, man?” Miles throws up a hand in indignation.

They both turn to him.

Ganke blinks, “oh hey, dude.”

“What do you mean hey? Wh— why are you fraternising with the enemy?” Miles hisses as he closes the door behind him.

Ganke blinks again, before turning to look up at the doppelganger beside him. The doppelganger blinks back. Ganke turns back to Miles. “He’s not really… ‘enemying’ right now. Chill, dude.”

Miles opens his mouth, and then closes it. Then he opens it again, “well— well yes but— but he’s probably plotting something. You— you shouldn’t let your guard down. Villains are— they’re villains for a reason, man.” 

Miles doesn’t know why he’s saying this. It feels like the muddled spiel of a child. His tongue is heavy between his teeth. 

“We can’t trust him,” Miles continues, and really, he thinks wants to say something else entirely. His fingers twitch. “He threatened to kill me, remember? He’s only playing nice because I’m his only chance at gettin’ back home. Don’t get it twisted.”

There’s nothing wrong with what he’s saying. It’s all true. All of it’s true. Miles is using his common sense right now, isn’t he? Yet still, every word feels like a missed shot— none of it’s hitting the mark, none of it sounds right.

“Dude—” Ganke starts.

“Not a villain,” the doppelganger cuts him off.

Miles scrunches up his nose. Does this guy think he’s stupid? “Uh, obviously you—”

“Not,” the doppelganger eats up the space between them in two quick strides, one fist slamming into the wall beside Miles’ head. The thud rings in his ears. “A villain.”

He’s shorter. Miles can look down at him. He can, he promises. This guy is shorter than him. By at least an inch, if not two. Miles’ shoulders hunch in on themselves anyway. It’s the eyes. It’s always the eyes. The doppelganger’s jaw is tight, his mouth is narrow, sharp. His eyes, they are—

Murderous.

“Call me that shit again,” the boy with his face says, sinister. “And I’ll show you what a villain looks like.”

Miles swallows.

"Um," Ganke says helpfully, clearly out of his depth.

"We clear, tarado?"  Moron. The doppelgangers leans in closer.

“Fuck off, man,” Miles shoves the guy aside with his forearm, glaring. The walls, they seem to fold inwards on themselves. His room, it feels like a cave. The air’s too thick in here. Miles stumbles his way over to the window and pretends it's just an excuse to get away from the asshole-- rather than a desperate need for fresh air. “Fuck off, man,” he says again, throat dry. 

It’s silent for a beat. 

“Miles, are you—”

“I’m fine,” Miles cuts off his roommate with a snap, and then immediately regrets it. Then he wonders if the boy was even talking to him and abruptly feels nauseous enough to vomit. He swallows again, eyes closing. His t-shirt is still sticking to his back and he wants to take it off despite feeling too cold. “Headache,” he mumbles off an excuse.

“Did you take the—”

“I did, I did,” Miles waves him off, gentler this time. “Must be too many all-nighters,” he mumbles

“Maybe you should skip that test.”

“Nah,” Miles shakes his head, “Dad would chew me out.”

He stands up straighter, closes the window. “S’cool,” he says, and tries to mean it. “Got two free periods, I’ll sleep then.”

He turns to his roommate-- and very carefully avoids the corner of the room where his look-alike stands-- who is actually looking at him for once. Ganke is frowning. Miles gives him a half-hearted thumbs up. Ganke’s frown deepens.

“M’ fine,” he insists with the classic Morales smile— something he inherited straight from his ma— it never fails.

Ganke’s expression clears, just a little. The boy hands him a water bottle, “drink this. If you die, your parents will kill me.”

Miles takes the water bottle. “My parents don't even like you.”

“Exactly,” Ganke nods. 

Miles squints. “Dude, is this your water?” 

Ganke shifts, turning back to his monitor. “Maybe.”

Miles gags as he inspects the plastic bottle more closely, finding tiny specks of who knows what. “You’re the worst,” Miles chucks the bottle into their waste bin.

Ganke shrugs, “I try.”

His doppelganger is still standing by the door, and while the guy no longer looks like he’s trying to murder Miles with his mind, he doesn’t look any friendlier. They make eye contact. It's tense. Charged. Awkward. Miles refuses to look away first, on principle. The doppelganger tilts his head. Miles tilts his back, arms crossing. 

The doppelganger rolls his eyes, “what’d you want, fool?”

“Not a fool,” Miles immediately retorts because he’s not letting that shit slide. Then he sighs a little, because he needs to be ‘civil’. “Here’s the deal, man. You stay here. You don’t leave, no matter what. Ganke will get you food. You can share Ganke’s clothes. You can sleep on Ganke’s bed—”

“Uh, can you not—”

“I’ll buy you three,” Miles holds up three fingers, “Cinnabon packs.”

“Four,” Ganke counters immediately.

“Deal,” Miles says, although he wonders how the hell the guy is going to eat all four packs— in truth, Ganke talks big game but he rarely makes it through one box of the cinnamon rolls. It’s more of a way to annoy Miles at this point.

“You can share Ganke’s bed,” Miles continues on, “but don’t touch my shit. Until we find a way to get you out of here, this is how it’s gonna be. Got it?”

The doppelganger’s jaw ticks, eyes narrowed. 

Miles doesn’t waver. 

“Si,” the look-alike says at last, word sharp as though it pains him.

“Okay, good,” Miles says, faltering a little because he’s not good at this whole dictator shtick. “Good,” he repeats. “Play by the rules, or— or,” erm, “or else.” Yeah, that’s it. What’s scarier than the unknown? Exactly. That’ll intimidate the asshole.

The doppelganger rolls his eyes again. “Fool,” the guy mutters as he shoves past Miles to sit on Ganke’s bed.

Miles is not a fool, goddammit!

Whatever. 

“I’m gonna head to class early,” he announces, fingers fumbling around for his backpack straps. “Might as well.”

Ganke gives him the usual thumbs up.

The doppelganger doesn’t spare him a glance.

Miles heads for the door, and tries not to feel, well, anything.

_____

Miles waits until he’s at least halfway down the hallway before he collapses against a wall, chest heaving.

Shit.

He crouches low, head between his knees and tries to breathe. The ugly floors of his dormitory stare up at him, distorted and swirling. There’s the warm tang of iron on his tongue. The inside of his cheek throbs. Miles squeezes his hands together to stop them from shaking.

He wants to close his eyes, just for a second but—

He wants to lay down, right here, on the weird floor, and curl in on himself but—

He wants to sleep, really, really badly but—

But every time Miles closes his eyes, all he can see is his uncle.

Shit.

Chapter Text

“You don’t punch with fists.”

His tío tells him this with an unlit joint between his fingers. He knows Miles hates the smell. He knows Miles’ father hates it even more. The man has one arm bent over the couch, eyes to the ceiling. 

Miles pauses, shoulders bunched up and sweat pooling at his nape. “What?”

“You don’t punch,” his tío repeats, “with fists.”

Miles stares down at his boxing gloved hands and frowns. Sometimes, his tío can be so vague. He probably thinks it makes him look cool, or like, mysterious— but it’s just very annoying, if Miles is honest.

“And what,” Miles rolls his neck and tries not to roll his eyes as well, “does that mean?”

You don’t punch with fists.

That’s like saying you don’t smell with your nose.

“Professionals say it’s the shoulders,” his tío shrugs a little.

“Shoulders?” Miles lifts his to his chin unconsciously and then relaxes them a second later.

“Shoulders,” the man confirms, and then his eyes finally slide over to where Miles is standing next to the punching bag. 

“Punching… with your shoulders?” Miles tilts his head, feeling more than a little confused. “That’s what I gotta do?”

“You? Nah. Go with the body.”

“The body?” Miles doesn’t mean to sound like a scratched record but man his tío is making zero sense. First it’s not the fists— it’s the shoulders— and then it’s not the shoulders— it’s the body. He can’t smell anything, but maybe the man had an extra joint before he arrived. Miles is very sure that if clenches his fingers and punches the bag that it will be a punch.

“Your pops punches with the shoulders,” his tío sits up straight, tosses the joint onto the coffee table. 

“He’s got a mean right hook, m’tellin ya. Mounta’ times he got me good with it. He used to tilt, like this,” and the man twists his torso. “Lift his arm up to here,” he brings his arm up to shoulder level and bends his elbow. “The other arm came up here,” and he lifts a fist to the side of his face. “And bam,” his tío throws the punch. 

“Worked every time. Shit, your pops was a bully, kid,” he says it with a lazy grin, like he’s remembering a memory— something golden warm in his eyes.

Miles doesn’t think his dad uses a right hook anymore. Miles thinks that there’s a taser hanging off his dad’s belt, and a badge over his heart. Miles thinks his father hasn’t thrown a real punch in years. 

“Not like that anymore,” Miles says, and doesn’t mean to sound so sullen. 

His tío laughs. “S’ a good thing, Miles.”

Miles scrunches up his nose. “He’s not cool, man. Aburrido.” Lame.

“Don’t cuss your dad in Spanish,” his tío scolds half-heartedly.

“Not a cuss,” Miles rolls his eyes. 

“I wouldn’t know,” the man shrugs. “Cut him some slack— it’s because of you, y’know? Got a kid and had to switch up. Can’t be throwing right hooks around every day with a kid back home. Gotta change. He did what he had to do. Happens to the best of daddies.”

“What about the worst?” 

His tío shrugs again, a little more casually. “S’ reason why they’re the worst.”

Miles doesn’t know what to think about that. His lip twists, just a little. Resentment sits beneath his tongue. He wants to say something else, wants to argue that maybe the best are the worst and the worst are the best and that maybe just because your dad is a goody-goody cop doesn’t mean he’s a goody-goody dad too. That maybe, it doesn’t really matter, if Miles was the reason he changed because the man barely sees him enough to even talk about it— because he doesn’t want to hear this from his tío, he wants to hear it from his father.

Miles shrugs, “guess so.”

“More of an uppercut guy myself,” the man continues on, one hand coming up to scratch at his chin. “Your pops taught me, but I made it my own. That's what you gotta do. Make it your own. S’ what they don’t teach you kids in your fancy schools— hell, not like they taught me in my crappy school either but— it’s not about what you learn, it’s ‘bout how you use it.”

“So, so—” Miles clenches his fists a little, chest pumping as he readies his stance. “The shoulders?”

“Nah, not for you,” his tío shakes his head. He’s got a small grin on, something just off a smirk. Miles’ dad never smiles at him like that. “For you? You gotta use everything. Your whole body.”

His whole body?

What does that even mean? Is he meant to kick and punch at the same time? Miles ain’t a superhero. 

“I don’t get it,” Miles frowns, shoulders deflating.

The man stands up, makes his way over to him. He places a palm on Miles’ head, right atop his newly braided scalp. Miles scowls and swats him off. His tío slaps him on the back of his neck for his cheek. Miles tries to kick at the man’s shin but misses. His tío laughs.

They never hug. Miles isn’t affectionate like that. His tío is too cool for that. But they do this. 

“When you punch,” the man wraps a hand around Miles’ wrist. “Don’t use your fist. Use everything. This,” he flattens a palm atop Miles’ gloved fist, “ain’t the most important part. It’s how you get there. It’s what gets you there. I don’t wanna see no mindless bullshit— if you’re gonna hit someone, you gotta know why. You hear?”

Miles stares.

“What if I don’t know why?”

His tío shrugs, letting him go, “then you deserve to get the shit beat out of you.”

Miles snorts.

His tío grins.

They start to laugh.

|||||

Two years later, Miles knows why. He’s got enough reasons to fill both hands and then some. He doesn’t rely on his fists— they’re useless— he relies on something far more powerful—

“Unlucky,” the woman taunts with a fingertip to her crumbling lips. She blows and his vision clouds beneath the mask. She takes the chance to kick him off of the ground, gritty bare feet knocking into the backs of his knees. Miles grunts and takes the fall, shoulder blades colliding into the concrete roof floor. He’s back on his feet a second later, already lunging.

Miles can’t remember the last time he went to the beach, and yet, he can recall how much he hates the sand. In between his toes, itching down his back, crusting around his eyes. The salty grains on his tongue. 

His lip curls downwards. 

Sand slips through your fingers far too easily.

He lets her land a heavy blow to his torso, the air punched out of him as his back slams into the brick walls of a fire escape. 

His tío is going to nag him for this, but tough— Miles does things his own way. 

He dodges a grainy hand to the chest. Her nails are sharp as glass. Talons. The wind of her swipe catches him anyway, charged with bitter pieces of sand, nicks him right on the neck— tears through the thick of his collar like it’s nothing. His skin stings.

He jerks up his thigh and swerves into a half kick, twisting at the waist. The toe of his sneakers hit thin air. Her torso disperses into the moonlight, sand swirling in the mimicry of a storm before it reforms again— all contorted and narrow, nothing but a grotesque version of the human rib-cage. 

“Sidekick needs new tricks,” she hisses with pleased, pointing teeth and a dry, gritty tongue.

In his periphery, he can see his tío scaling the diagonal of a crumbling apartment block— two kids under the man’s arms, one clinging onto his back. Chunks of sandstone fall into the road below. There’s a traffic light snapped in half across the sidewalk. A small shoe catches his eye— it sits beside a large billboard sign that lies face down on the street. There’s a pool of red spilling out from beneath it. His jaw tightens.

Strike.  

She has him by the arm. 

Slam. 

She has him by the shoulder. 

Shove. 

She has him by the neck.

Her pupils are nonexistent. There’s nothing but the leftover image of her face, like a printer out of ink— all blurred and crumbling and fizzling out of detail. She grins. A wide, sharp thing.

He stares back at her, and does not flinch. Even as those razor pin-pointed nails dig into his flesh.

Miles flicks his right wrist. “Tonta,” fool, he mutters. Now it’s his turn.

White flares spark off his fingertips and he adjusts his stance, shoulders squaring..

Jab. 

Her fingers fall from his neck, sand dispersing and swerving out of harm’s way with a tilt of her liquid spine. He flicks his left wrist, snaps his thumb and index together. Bright white light turns golden, molten. Explosive. 

Left hook. 

She can’t dodge quick enough. Doesn’t matter either way— every stray grain of sand ignites and starts to smoke. 

She grunts, rage unfurling. 

“You—”

Uppercut. 

Magnesium bursts from his palm and he clenches it tight between his fingers, between his fists. 

There are children crying. Someone screams, raw, right from the pit of their stomach. Another thud, another body crushed beneath the rubble.

Nowadays, Miles relies on his anger.

He lets his fist fly.

Right hook.

She turns to gas. 

Miles scrapes the rough of his metaled knuckles below his chin, hisses through his teeth. He could’ve been a little quicker, this time ‘round.

She’ll be back, of course. 

Sandwoman is a bitch.

He needs to find his tío. Unhooking his grapple hook, Miles swings into the burning streets, sneakers slapping against the sides of unused, rusting skyscrapers.

He finds the man surrounded by sniffling children.

“Fix up,” his tío places a heavy palm on the tallest girl’s shoulder. “You gotta get them outta here, aight? Unless you wanna die right here. Hear me?”

She can’t be older than twelve— wide, red eyes, blotchy cheeks. She gives a stilted nod, choked on the other half of a sob, throat bobbing. 

“All of you, follow her,” his tío orders. “Don’t let me find you near here. Go that way,” he points down the street. “And don’t come back.”

She nods again, exhaling shakily.

His tío snaps his fingers, shooing them on. They all startle and then, stiffly, start to shuffle away— like soldiers, backs straight and eyes haunted. 

There’s a boy, that barely reaches Miles’ knees. He trips over his laces. Miles catches him by the hood of his scorched jacket. The boy stares up at him with wide, scared eyes. Miles kneels down. The boy continues to stare. Miles begins to tie his laces.

“Don’t get lost, okay?” He says, adjusting his modulator to something softer by the dial on his helmet. “Follow your sister, niño.” Kid.

The boy’s lip wobbles.

In the distance, the tiles off of a bakery roof clatter to the pavement.

“Ay, ay,” Miles lifts a palm, metal fingers opening up. He places his hand on the boy’s head. “You’re okay. Stay with your sister. You’re okay.”

Tears dribble down the boy’s cheeks.

“Want mami,” the boy says.

Miles swallows. “You’ll find her,” he lies. “Go on, or you’ll get left behind.”

He stands to his feet and watches the children stumble away.

His tío is talking into his mask, hushed, one hand by the ear. “Seven of them. Youngest around three. Two need medical. All going through shock. Heading your way in four.”

Miles goes to stand beside him.

The man clicks off his microphone. “All clear?”

“The magnesium needs tweaking,” Miles replies. “Ain’t strong enough.”

“Escaped?”

“Yeah. She’ll be a while though.”

His tío nods. “Ready to roll?”

Miles flicks his wrist. “Si.” Yes.

Crack.

There’s a sound, and then there’s a feeling, almost simultaneously. A sharp, high-pitched scrhhhh. Like lightning hitting the concrete. The collision of two surfaces, except, in reverse— a tearing, of sorts. The way velcro crackles. 

Miles takes an unconscious step towards his tío when the ground starts to rumble.

“Earthquake?” The man mutters.

Miles opens his mouth to reply and the ground beneath his feet folds in on itself. 

There’s a gasp trapped between his teeth, trying to squeeze its way out, as his knees buckle and the world starts to shudder— but Miles can’t manage a single breath, as though all the air was wringed out of his chest under an unyielding grip. His rib-cage tightens, and tightens, and tightens.

Sandwoman, is she—

The city blacks out, the streets are pitched into darkness. There’s screaming. Miles can barely hear his own heartbeat.

What the—

His tío—

Miles’ head throbs.

The concrete beneath his fingers is there one moment, and gone the next, and then back again. Colours burst before his eyes. It hurts. It hurts. Everything—

Why is—

“Miles!”

Miles falls straight through the ground, head first into oblivion.

|||||

Miles wakes up to a dream.

He sits up, on the bend of his elbows, and stares. Brooklyn, New York. Billboards and bodegas on the corner, horns blaring. These are the streets he visits when he closes his eyes. The sky is blue, not murky, and it makes him squint— too bright. 

His neck itches. His wrists ache. His ribs, sore.

Miles wakes up to the dream he has gone to sleep to every night, and his chest burns with dread.

Miles wakes up to his dream.

You don’t do that. You don’t do that. You don’t wake up to the things that rest on your pillow, the things that reside in your bed-sheets and your bed-sheets alone. That too bright sky, it isn’t meant to hurt like this. The bookstore across the road, shouldn’t be standing tall. The streets— the streets shouldn’t look so—

Carbon monoxide is trapped in his lungs. His neck bleeds sluggishly. A bruise the size of his palm stains his stomach.

Oil in water.

You don’t wake up in your dreams.

Your dreams should never be able to reach daylight.

Miles stands, knees shaking. 

This isn’t right. This shouldn’t exist. 

He stumbles, heels heavy, and breaks into a sprint.

|||||

This isn’t Miles’ New York.

Shocking, right?

Ha.

There are celebrities that don’t exist. Cereals that went out of business years ago. Haircuts that haven’t been in style for almost a decade.

His skin feels like it’s two inches off of his body. Floating. There’s nothing to ground himself with. How do you anchor yourself to a fantasy? 

Miles crouches low, in an alleyway that somehow manages to look ten times better than any of the streets in his own world. He ducks his head between his knees and tries to control his breaths. 

What’s got you lookin’ like that, Miles? Fix your shit.

His tío’s voice rattles around his skull.

Is the man looking for him? Is Miles dead? Is this the afterlife?

What about his mother? 

Mijo, did you take the chicken out of the freezer like I told you? Seriously? I told you before I left, Miles. Ay, I swear.

That’s what his ma would’ve said, when he got back home with tío. The chicken’s still sitting in the freezer. His bad, really. They would’ve had to improvise. Maybe pasta? Probably rice and beans.

Miles exhales slowly, eyes closing. 

This isn’t his New York, that’s true.

Trying to fall asleep was futile, that’s true too.

He has injuries that aren’t miraculously healing like they should in a dream, no matter how elaborate. 

This isn’t his New York, but Miles has no idea where the hell he is.

He’s alone, in a city where it seems like he doesn’t even exist.  

And shit, sue him, Miles is scared. Scared of what it means, to be in a world that is a mirror image of his own. Scared, that this isn’t some twisted reflection of his own imagination. Scared that this alley he sits in, is as real as he is. Scared, that he’ll go looking for his apartment, his mother, his tío— and he won’t find any of it, any of them.

Miles is even more scared, however, of looking for his home, his bedroom, his mother, his tío, (his father), and finding all of it, all of them. Finding everything and more— that’s what terrifies him to the core.

His fingers tremble beneath the gauntlets.

Miles is fucked.

“Look, it's Spider-man! Spidey! Spidey!”

Miles blinks. 

There’s a smattering of noise that leaks in from the streets. Cheering. Clapping. A young girl’s excited shouting.

…Spider-man?

Miles stands. Takes a step. Then another. Stalks close to edge of the alley, and lurks from a distance.

“Wassup, Brooklyn!”

A guy in a… onesie. A guy in a onesie hanging upside down by a… rope? A guy in a onesie hanging upside down by a rope in the middle of New York. 

…Okay.

“Spidey! I got this for you, because—” a little boy offers out a lollipop to the onesie guy. “Because you saved me!”

The onesie guy takes the lollipop, “thanks, man— this is the best flavour, you got taste. And m’ always gonna save the day, it’s my thing” the guy shrugs in a way that is both casual and overly cocky all at once.

“We love you, Spider-man!” A woman in the growing crowd shouts, which starts another round of applause and cheering.

Miles tilts his head.

Who the hell is this guy?

Chapter Text

“Want some?” 

There was a Ganke in his world. They were roommates for two weeks. He was alright. They never really made it past pleasantries. Really, there’s no need for Miles to talk about him like he’s dead - he is sure the guy is fine. He just hadn’t caught a glimpse of him in nearly two years. When you stop seeing people, he supposes, they are as good as dead. Maybe.

This one wears glasses. And seems to hit the gym. Miles is starting to wonder how the other Ganke turned out.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “I’m good.” Truth is, he doesn’t know what the boy is offering. Cookies of some kind, he thinks, but not like any cookie he’s ever seen. Miles is already uneasy, no need to add to it.

Ganke shrugs and swings back around on his chair. The sound of controller tapping fills the room. Miles sits. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to sleep. His mouth tastes like blood but he can’t remember biting his tongue. 

“Wanna play?” 

Miles blinks.

“It’s a racing simulator. Easy controls.”

Miles wants to lay down. “I’m alright,” he swallows. This is weird. 

“Not much of a gamer?”

“...Nah.”

“Fair.”

This… is awkward. Miles isn’t used to awkward. He also isn’t used to talking to people who aren’t his tio, or his mother, or someone looking to kill him, or someone that he is looking to kill (a joke. That’s a joke, obviously). He’s not inclined to make it any less awkward though, because that means more talking. Miles does not want to talk. 

“There’s painkillers under the bed. If you need them.”

His shoulders hike up. “I don’t.”

Ganke says, “okay,” and it rubs him the wrong way.

“I ain’t hurt,” he insists.

Ganke shrugs, still facing the monitor. “If you say so, man.”

Miles opens his mouth and closes it just as quick. His jaw clenches. 

“I, uh,” Ganke starts and then trails off. More controller tapping. “Shit, I almost had it. What the hell? I swear this update - I’m just saying that I live with you, y’know?”

Miles takes a moment. “You don’t,” he wants to say more but stops himself there. 

“Kinda do,” Ganke refutes. “You’re the same.”

It is very hard not to get angry. It is worse to be visibly, embarrassingly offended by the words of someone that doesn’t know him.  “We’re not.”

“Your arm hurts. And you’re hungry.”

That’s - 

“No,” Miles says, and then immediately feels like an idiot.

“No? No, what? I’m wrong?”

“...Yes.”

Ganke swings back around, one eyebrow raised. He lifts a bare, open palm. “Punch me.”

Miles blinks. 

“C’mon, punch me if it doesn’t hurt. Right fist.”

Miles does not punch him. “Get away from me,” he bites out.

Ganke grins. “Have an Oreo ,” he says instead, offering out the cookies again. Miles does not want a stupid ass Oreo , what the hell kind of name is that?

Miles glares.

Ganke shakes the packet. “Scared of a cookie, bro?”

Miles takes an Oreo. It’s… He takes another. “Hand it over,” he mumbles, gesturing to the rest of the packet. Ganke laughs.

|||||

He’s not allowed to leave. Miles does not care. There are only two people in his life that he’ll take orders from, and that idiot isn’t even close. There is something he needs to see, and it’s not inside these four walls.

“I need clothes.”

“Go ahead,” Ganke waves a hand. “Might be a bit big.”

The jacket is big. The joggers are not, they graze his ankles. It’s tolerable. Miles shoves the window open.

“Pretty high,” Ganke peers over his shoulder. “Got any superpowers I don’t know about?”

Miles scowls. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not,” Ganke shrugs. “Just curious.”

Miles looks at him. “You gonna tell him about this?”

Ganke snorts, “he’s you ,” he says, like that’s supposed to mean something.

“Whatever,” he mutters, and then he jumps.

Free-falling. He remembers the first time he trusted his sneakers to save him. His tio helped design them but not even he fully trusted the mechanics - not enough to dive headfirst off a rooftop, anyway. Miles was different then, somewhere between caring too much and not at all. At that moment he didn’t care if he died. His tio confiscated them for a month.

Miles lands on his feet.

Some people look his way, but most mind their business. It’s Brooklyn, after all. Some things never change. Miles will take what he can.

The streets are familiar. The layout is the same: Intersection here; traffic lights on the corner;  metal trash cans every twenty or so steps. The shops aren’t: that bodega was crushed; the barbers went out of business; that movie theatre stopped running two years ago. Miles feels dizzy. He walks.

“Miles?” 

He slaps the hand away before it can make contact. A middle-aged woman stares back at him, eyes wide. She clutches her hand to her chest. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Miles, dios mio! What are you walking around like that for? Skipping school?” She reaches forward like she might try and grab him again and Miles takes a step back.  “Miles?”

He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know her at all. “...Sorry,” he mutters.

She frowns. “Are you alright, carino? You look sick. ”

“I’m fine. Bien.”

“Why are you not at school?” Her frown deepens.

He shifts. She’s still looking at him and they’re right in the middle of the sidewalk and people are walking around them and he needs to leave. Could she be family? His stomach rolls. 

“Emergency,” he rushes out and turns on his heel. 

He ignores the call of his name and slips between the crowd. It’s not him that she’s calling, anyway. There are goosebumps on the back of his neck. He yanks his hood over his face. It’s a warm day. It was raining everyday last week, back at home.

It doesn’t take long. The route is the same. He stops trusting his eyes and leans on his feet, his body knows the twists and turns better than anything else. He could probably find it blind.

Miles can’t make it any further than the steps.

They’re made of the same faded red stone. It’s cleaner. The windows are clear. Miles stands and stares. He doesn’t know how long he stays there. Time has been passing oddly.

He leaves. There’s nothing more to it. He tells himself he’s seen all he needs to see. He tells himself he found what he came for. He tells himself that that was enough. He tells himself to just believe it because he’s tired and he’s annoyed and -

He’s -

Miles doesn’t know.

|||||

Ganke opens the window and says, “if you’ve got secret powers, you should really tell me.”

Miles rolls his eyes.

“Seriously. How’d you get up here?”

Miles ignores him, in favour of scanning the dorm. “Give me more oros.”

“ Oreos, ” he corrects.

“Whatever.”

“Where did you even go, dude?”

“Places.”

“You’re real secretive.”

Miles doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s hungry. 

“Your twin should be back soon.”

His jaw clenches. “Didn’t ask.”

Ganke shrugs, unbothered, and tosses him a packet of something. It’s not Oreos, and Miles is unreasonably disappointed. 

“It’s good, try it.”

This world is full of weird looking shit. Tiny, rubber looking pizzas stare back at him. Everything about it seems indelible. Miles takes one. Candy. It’s candy.

“Good right?”

“Weird as hell,” Miles mutters, and then eats another handful.

The door slams open.

The idiot stands in the doorway with his arms splayed out like, well, an idiot. He immediately points an accusing finger at Miles. Miles raises an eyebrow.

“You - you left!”

Miles sniffs. “No.”

“Yes!” The idiot screeches, slamming the door behind him. “You did. Specifically when I told you not to, you - you fu-”

“How’d the test go?” Ganke interrupts.

They both blink. Then the idiot turns on his roommate.

“You were supposed to watch him, man!”

“He’s you,” Ganke says, throwing his hands up like that means something.

The idiot makes a motion like he wants to strangle something and then promptly inhales and drags his hands down his face, exhaling heavily. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this-”

He’s dramatic as hell. Miles rolls his eyes.

“Let’s order food,” Ganke suggests. Is that his solution for everything?

Chapter Text

Miles flunked his test.

You’re not surprised. Neither is he. The words started blurring before he could pick up his pen. He was off his game, obviously. Still is. Mr Stevens gave him a look when the papers were collected and Miles tried his best to avoid eye contact. Bad grades are one thing (don’t let his mother hear that), but Adult Concern is another. Miles works overtime making sure no one worries about him. Because worrying about him means worrying about how he spends his extracurricular hours and that means worrying about Spider-man. No one needs to worry about Spider-man. You get it.

Whatever. (Don’t let his mother hear that either.) It was one test. He’s acing everything else. …Maybe not Spanish. He’s acing most things. That’s good enough. 

Point is, he’s already had his ass kicked by thermodynamics and he’s very reasonably pissed off and his phone is ringing and he really doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now but oh man, that’s his mother. 

“Mami, hey,” he starts, sweetening his words on instinct because he’s most definitely in trouble for something. 

“Skipping school, Miles? Really? What are we even paying for, huh? Huh? Ay, I swear, when I tell your father-”

She keeps going.

Miles closes his eyes and takes in a deep, serene breath of air.

He’s going to kill that son of a- that motherfu- err, that bast- 

(It is really hard to insult someone that has the same parents. And face.)

“What are you on ab-” Miles wisely backtracks. “Why would I ever skip-” Try again. “Mami, I just finished my Chemistry test. I’ve been at school all morning. You can even ask Mr Stevens.”

“I don’t know a Mr Stevens-”

“My chemistry teacher-”

“Your tía Camila called me, ay, you should have heard how upset she was. Talking about how you wouldn’t even stop to talk and ran away from her!”

“Ma, that wasn’t-”

“You better call her and apologise before she-”

“It wasn’t-”

“What were you doing out, walking around like a delincuente when you should be in school? I swear-”

“It wasn’t me!” 

Everyone turns to look at him and Miles is reminded that he is standing in the middle of the hallway. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean,” he amends, “it wasn’t me. I’ve been at school all morning, I swear. You can call my teachers and - and the principal…?” He doesn’t want his parents calling the principal. “It must’ve been a lookalike. Really.”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.” Is the first thing his mother says. Miles rolls his eyes. “...I won’t call your teacher because I’m choosing to believe you.” Which is code for: she doesn’t want to call his school because she hates phone calls. “I’ll tell your tía it must have been a misunderstanding. You give her a call as well, okay?”

“Yes, mom.”

He hears her clear her throat. “Have you eaten?”

“I had cereal from the cafeteria,” he lies.

“Eat a good lunch. I’ll see you this weekend, papi.”

“Mhm,” Miles nods along, “love you, bye,” he rushes out like it’s one word and promptly hangs up.

The screen protector on his phone cracks a little and he loosens his grip. He takes another very deep, very calm breath. That was fine. That was cool. Miles is not feeling violent. No, not at all.

He does not go back to his dorm immediately. In fact, he takes the longest possible route. It’s for everyone’s benefit, really. He's delaying the inevitable lecture that he has to give about responsibility and logical decisions and consequences. Damn. Is this what parenting feels like? 

Miles buys a chocolate milk at the cafeteria and sips it in heavy contemplation. 

Should he open the door normally? Or slam it open? Is that too dramatic? Should he start shouting immediately or wait for the momentum? What about guilt-tripping? That won’t work on either of them. One of his greatest hangups is that he’s not intimidating. Spider-man just isn’t that typa' guy. He’s friendly. And er, neighbourhood. Miles should really work on his glare. Uncle Aaron had a real mean one when he wanted. (Uncle Aaron was also a criminal.) Peter, on the other hand, least intimidating guy on the planet, probably. Still, everyone listened to him when it mattered. Peter was…

Miles finishes the chocolate milk. He throws it at a trashcan across the hall and gets it in one. Victory at last.

Alright, time to shout at some teenagers. 

|||||

“We’re not ordering food.” Miles does not normally sound like a killjoy Miles hates being a killjoy. He sounds like his dad and that is deeply, deeply upsetting. 

“Just a suggestion,” Ganke shrugs. 

“I suggest you stop suggesting.” Oh man, that was another dad sentence. What is happening to him? Is this what stress does to a man?

Ganke puts his hands up in surrender. Miles feels violent. Again.

“I told you not to leave,” he gets back on track, turning to the doppelganger, “and you left. We had rules , you asshole. Are you trying to get me grounded?”

The doppelganger stares back evenly. “I don’t do rules, fool.”

Miles is going to lose his mind.

“You do now!” He seethes. “You do now, man! You - you can’t just do whatever while I’m at school. This is my life. You’re not even meant to be here. You don’t just turn up in people’s dimensions and be a fucking asshole! You stay in here, and you don’t leave until I say so. That’s it.”

“Tell me what to do again,” the doppelganger threatens, a tenseness in his jaw. Oh he’s angry. Great. Join the club!

Miles squares his shoulders. He says it slowly, “you’re not allowed to leave this room until I say so.”

The doppelganger stands. Miles swallows.

“Or else you can forget it,” he continues.

“It?” The doppelganger’s expression narrows, dangerous.

“Finding a way to get back home,” Miles keeps his tone even. “You mess around with my life here, and you can forget yours. I’m your ticket home. I’m the only one who knows about dimensional travel and the collider. What’re you gonna do without me?”

The doppelganger stares.

Go on. Prove me wrong.

“If you don’t send me back,” the doppelganger starts, “I’ll make your life hell.” A promise filled with endless possibilities.

Miles doesn’t back down. A stalemate. He crosses his arms. “You’ll still be stuck here.”

“Your little hero life,” the doppelganger rolls his tongue. He- ro. “Want to risk it?”

“Your only way home,” he counters. 

They stare each other down. Who’s bluffing? Can they afford to chance it?

“You must really hate yourself.”

They both blink.

Ganke sniffs. “M’just saying.”

“Stop saying,” Miles scowls. 

“You guys should have a timeshare,” Ganke continues. “Twelve hours each.”

“That’s-”

“No.”

Ganke rolls his eyes and turns back around to his monitor. “I tried.”

Miles stares at the doppelganger. The doppelganger stares back. He contemplates.

“Four hours,” he bites out.

“Eight,” the doppelganger immediately counters.

“Four.”

“Eight.”

“Four.”

“Ocho.”

“You can’t just- cuatro.”

“Ocho.”

“Cuatro.”

“Veinticuatro.”

“Uno.”

“Siete.”

“Seis.”

“...Sí.”

That was surprisingly productive. Or was he just swindled? “Fine, you get six hours a day. To… walk.”

“Not a dog,” the doppelganger glares.

Then don’t act like one. “Whatever. Six hours. No weird shit. No weird clothes. Don’t ignore people. And you have to fix your hair.”

“Not happening.”

“Don’t like the rules, don’t leave,” Miles shrugs.

The doppelganger looks like he wants to kill him.

“Great talk, so glad you agree, man,” Miles continues just for the satisfaction of watching the doppelganger grow a new muscle on his forehead. The doppelganger mutters something intelligible under his breath. Miles wisely ignores it.

He shrugs off his blazer and tosses his Jordans in a corner. He deserves a well rested eight hours of uninterrupted sleep but he’ll settle for two hours. Well, an hour and a half at this point. Miles pointedly walks around the murderous teenager glaring at him and climbs into his bunk, immediately falling face first into the sheets. No more thinking, no more thinking. As long as he’s asleep nothing is his problem.

“Wake m’up in hour,” he mumbles, eyes closed.

“Uh huh,” Ganke agrees.

“Be good,” Miles feels the need to order. He’s actually turning into a dad. Wow.

“Shut up,” the doppelganger grunts.

Parenting is hard. He should send his parents a gift basket.

Chapter Text

One more chance.

“How’s it coming along?”

Biggie, give me one more chance.

Miles tilts his head and squints. 

I got the good love, girl, ya didn’t know?

It’s not that it’s bad. It’s good, really. The composition is all there. The colours are bright and loud and dripping off the wall. There’s a puddle of neon by his feet. With a sigh he drops his hand, the pea in the spray can rattling. 

“I dunno, man. Something’s missing.”

Give me one more chance.

One more-

The song fizzles like a station out of tune. White noise. Then it’s cut off completely. Footsteps approach. A hand rests itself on his shoulder. They stare for a minute, contemplating. 

“I see it, I see it. It’s coming along.”

Miles disagrees. “Nah, it’s done.” He’ll ruin it if he continues. He lets the spray can drop. 

“Come back tomorrow, you’re beat, Miles.”

Miles hums noncommittally. It won’t make a difference whether he tries again in an hour or a year. There’s something missing and he won’t find it. Not here. A spider scuttles across the ground in a zig-zag. It leaves a trail of neon pink and green on the dark concrete. He squashes it beneath his sneaker.

“You’re not looking yourself, kid. Girl trouble?”

Miles snorts and shrugs the hand off of his shoulder. “Shut up, man.”

“Ain’t no shame in it. I wasn’t always this cool.”

“I’m not having trouble!”

“What about that girl? The one you were tryna’ impress?”

“She…” Miles shifts. His gaze drifts from the wall to the ground and back to the wall. Restless, he rolls his neck and shoves his hands into his pockets.  “She left,” he shrugs. He doesn’t say more. The silence stretches. He takes his hands out of his pockets and picks up the spray can by his feet. He shakes it just to hear the pea clatter around. It’s not that he wants to say more. It just feels like he should. “Moved,” he adds, clearing his throat. “She couldn’t stay, y’know? There was… stuff.  Nothin’ to do with me. But she had to go. And she’s not coming back so…”

“Tough stuff.”

“Nah.”

They collect the rest of the spray cans. 

“Hey, Uncle Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

“Am I… doing the right thing?”

“There ain’t no rules to art, Miles. You know that.”

“No, not– not that. With, uh, everything else.”

“That’s pretty broad, kid. What’s worryin’ you?”

“Nothing, I’m just–” he stalls. Stacking the spray cans into his backpack. The red one won’t fit, it pokes out awkwardly in the way of the zipper. He’ll just have to carry it.  He steels himself. “Do you think I’ll turn out like you?”

Miles stares at his uncle. The man stares back. 

“S’that what you want?”

Miles hesitates. A purple light catches his eye. “What’s that?”

Uncle Aaron frowns. “Huh?”

“No, look, your hand,” Miles drops his backpack and steps closer. He grabs the man’s fist and turns it over. It’s glowing. It’s purple. And yellow. And red. “What the…?” He stares up into his uncle’s face, which is purple and yellow and red and blue and green and–

Glitching.

“Uncle Aaron!”

His uncle’s reply distorts. White noise. The tunnel shakes. There’s a whirring noise in Miles’ ears like a train ran past him, through him. He grips Uncle Aaron’s fist tight between his two hands. It’s hard to look at his face— as though he’s staring directly at the sun, or an explosion. A black-hole opens up behind the man’s back. A silhouette too large to be human steps through.

“This one’s mine, kid,” Kingpin tells Miles. 

No. This is his uncle. This is his uncle. Miles is going to save him. He’s not a child anymore and his web-shooters are stronger and faster and his hands are smaller. Wait, what? His hands are smaller? That’s not–

“What?” Miles whispers, voice cracking. He’s not a kid. He’s not a kid. It’s been a year. He’s gotta’ save his uncle, and then Peter-

“Stay out of this,” Kingpin says.

“Give me back my uncle,” Miles orders. 

“You’re weak, ” Kingpin says.

Miles is not weak. Miles has been training. Miles has a purple claw instead of a right hand and he’ll tear Kingpin’s face off.

“I wanted you to be better,” Uncle Aaron says with dimming eyes.

“I am better,” Miles swears.

“You let me down, man.”

Miles can’t take the claw off. It’s stuck. He’s pulling but it won’t come loose. His fingers are bleeding and no matter how hard he tugs, it won’t come off. What kind of mechanism is this? Where’s his suit? He needs his suit. The claw hurts. It’s squeezing his arm. He just needs to find his suit. Or call for backup. Where is everyone? Noir? Peni? Ham? They should be here by now. Peter, where’s Peter? Gwen should be…

Where is he?

The wind blows and goosebumps break out on the back of his neck. There’s a tree in the distance. It’s tall and spindly and swaying. It’s the only thing he can see. Miles needs to get to that tree. He takes a step, and then another. The closer he gets, the louder the wind roars. There must be a storm coming.  

Oh.

His suit. 

Relief almost knocks him down. He’s found his suit. It’s tied to a tree branch by the neck, floating lifelessly like a flag. Who put it up there? That’s his suit. Miles takes another step. And another. And… another. It’s still so far away. Why isn’t he getting any closer? He just needs to reach his suit. He tries to take another step and can’t lift his leg. What? No. Nono no. He’s so close. Just let him get to the tree, that’s all he needs. Then he can save Uncle Aaron and-

Where is Uncle Aaron?

“Miles? We weren’t expecting you.”

Miles blinks. His mom and dad stare back at him from the doorway. The sun is setting, it must be dinnertime.

“Aren’t you coming in?” His mom frowns.

“Yeah,” he says.

It smells good in the kitchen. The table is already set. They must have been waiting for him. He smiles. “I’m starving, thanks Mami.”

“Uh huh, let me make you a plate.”

Miles laughs. “I’ve already got one,” he gestures to the table. It’s set for three.

His mom laughs too. “Tonto,” silly, she says. “That’s not yours.”

Miles frowns. “What?”

Someone walks in.

“It’s mine,” the doppelganger says.

|||||

Miles falls off his bed. 

“You good, dude?” Ganke spares a glance down at him, looking like he couldn’t care less.

Miles groans. “Whatimeizit?”

“Two forty-five.”

“Two forty-five,” Miles mumbles with tacky lips. He pauses. “Two forty-five?” He sits up abruptly, eyes wide. “Ganke!” He hisses like a curse. “What the hell, man? You were supposed to wake me!”

“Well–”

“I told you an hour!”

“I know but–”

“I’ve already missed AP lit, shit! My mom’s gonna call again, and then she’s gonna call my dad and ugh, I’m never trusting you to– where is he?” Miles scrambles to his feet. He scans all four walls frantically. Oh man. “And you’ve lost him! Again!” 

Miles can’t do this. He feels more tired than before he slept and now he’s gotta’ chase down an alternate version of himself and talk his way out of ditching class. He regrets waking up. Just a little bit.

“–ude. Dude. Miles. Hey, are you even listening?”

He wasn’t. “Yes. You were explaining how much of a terrible roommate you are.”

Ganke gives him a lacklustre kick. “So you weren’t listening. You didn’t miss AP lit.”

“Uh, I think I did, if class started and I’m not there, which is what happened,” Miles is trying, he really is. But Ganke is testing him right now.

“Nope,” Ganke disagrees nonsensically.

“What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“You did go,” Ganke says.

“Dude, what the hell–”

“You,” Ganke stresses, staring at Miles meaningfully. “Did go.”

Miles opens his mouth, and then closes it. He doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh. “You sent him to my AP lit class.”

“He sent himself.”

“You let him go to my AP lit class.”

Ganke shrugs. “He’s you,” he says.

“You’re the worst guy in the chair.”

“That’s because I’m not your guy in the chair,” Ganke throws a neglected chemistry textbook at him. 

Miles catches it without looking. He also doesn’t need to look to know that Ganke is rolling his eyes. He sets the textbook down and hunkers down on the bottom bunk, elbows on knees. He frowns. He opens his mouth, and then closes it. He tries again. 

“Is he…” Miles doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but he hopes Ganke will. Ganke apparently thinks he knows Miles better than he knows himself. Which is bullshit, by the way. 

“Is he what?” Ganke sniffs.

Great. Miles shrugs. “I dunno.”

“I have a question.”

Ganke doesn’t ask questions. He hands out demands left and right ( “Get me a burger meal on your way back.” “I covered for you in gym, Oreo milkshake with extra whip.” “Answers for the worksheet? Hmm. Okay, get me twenty wings. Large fries. What? I’m bulking.”). But he doesn’t ask. He’d rather take (read: steal) Miles’ Jordans and argue that he has shared custody before even considering to ask to borrow them. It’s just the way he works. And it works. 

There had been a time when his roommate was more inquisitive, more starry-eyed. A time when Miles was still figuring out how best to wear his suit under his school uniform and they had fumbled around each other– apologies for crashing straight into the window, he was still working on my swings, hey, can you tell Mrs Johnson that I’m sick? I got hit by a car, apologies for accidentally sticking homework sheets together, do you have a spare pen? I lost my backpack somewhere on a roof downtown– that awkward adjustment period where things didn’t sit just right. 

(He remembers being hurt. Healing factor sluggishly catching up to the wound on his head. Slows blinks and staggered breaths that he tried to ration as he climbed in through the window like an alley cat. The second he was inside he’d torn his mask off in frantic delirium, so desperate to be Miles Morales. 

Ganke was awake, of course he was. The boy’s glasses had fallen slack around the tip of his nose, wide eyes transfixed on Miles' bowed figure. He’d watched and failed to do much else as Miles had wheezed through his teeth and peeled the suit off of his shoulders. There was an apology hovering in the air but Miles struggled to string the sentence together. Sorry. Sorry for… He didn’t know. 

“You okay?”

That was a stupid question.

“Stupid…” Miles hissed. “Stupid question, man.”

Ganke had nodded like an idiot. 

Miles’ head hurt. He swallowed.

“D’you have water?”

Ganke gave him water. Miles sat down on the floor because it hurt his eyes looking up. Ganke sat down on the floor beside him because, well… he wasn’t sure. Miles thought that was as good a time as any to apologise but he still didn’t know what to say. Sorry. Sorry for…

“You okay?” Ganke asked again. Something about it made him angry. Something about the way he’d looked at Miles, like he was brand new, like they weren’t roommates for six months already. Like a stranger.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

That was it. They sat in silence. They went to sleep. Miles scabbed up and scarred and then un-scarred like routine. Ganke was still Ganke. Except, a shift somewhere to the left. It wasn’t a change that could be pinned down but Miles suspects it started that night. He thinks they let each other down. Miles wasn’t as capable as Ganke thought. Ganke wasn’t cool as Miles thought. Miles started to forgo his apologies, and Ganke started to forgo his questions. It should’ve splintered their barely-existent friendship to pieces. It didn’t.)

Miles exhales heavily. He’s not going to like this. “Shoot.”

“Would you get braids?”

Miles hates this guy. He throws a pillow. “I’ll kill you.”

Ganke throws the pillow back. “Just a question, Morales.”

“Har, har.”

“You think he’ll kill you?”

Miles blinks. “What?” 

“That’s what you’re worried about, right?”

“No!” Miles protests vehemently. “As if he could even–”

“Just a question.”

“I hate your questions!”

“He’s not a killer.”

Yeah, I know he isn’t. 

He is. I know he is. I can feel it.

I don’t know. How can you be sure?

Why is the truth so hard to find when he turns to himself for answers? It can’t all be true. It’s one or the other. He’s a killer. He’s not a killer. It can’t be both and it can’t be neither. (Can he make the leap of faith or not? Is he flying or falling?)

Ganke takes a seat beside him. He’s got his tie on, knotted neatly for once. The boy leans back, palms flat behind him, eyes tilted to the wooden slats. He doesn’t speak for a while but Miles knows he will.

“You’ve gotta decide, man.” 

Miles unfolds, just a little. “Decide what?”

“Are you gonna help him, or not?”

Miles pulls at his collar, fiddling with the creases. “I will.” I have to, don’t I?

Ganke shrugs. “Then act like it.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” Ganke shakes his head. Miles wants to retort but the boy is already back on his feet, shrugging on his blazer and turning off the PS5. The conversation is done. “Hey, did Mr Perrez ask for the homework?”

“Nah,” Miles replies belatedly.

“Cool,” Ganke nods. “I’m out.”

Then he’s out, just like he said. 

|||||

Miles leaves.

His stunt double is writing essay paragraphs. He’s not going to get another opportunity like this. Besides, the window was already open and Miles would never ignore a sunny Brooklyn.

Day patrols aren’t a thing. He has toilet breaks, and sick days, and I forgot my textbook back at the dorm, Miss Ramiere, I’ll be super quick. He has those. He doesn’t have this:

Free-falling from the bridge at three o’clock. Feet to the web so that his fingertips can skim the East River’s surface. It’s cold to touch, even through his suit, but the sun shimmers off of it in blue ripples. There’s scattered nonsensical applause, mostly children– stretching as far as they can from their parents’ hands, just so that they can catch a glimpse of Spider-Man. He waves to wherever there are eyes. Most ignore him. He’s not a spectacle. Not really. He’s like the bridge, the river, the bodega on every corner. 

It feels good.

He stops a runaway car. Saves the odd oblivious pedestrian from walking into traffic. Eats a hotdog– on the house, he forgot to bring change. Helps clean a couple windows, which is more fun than he expected. Gets a complimentary cookie, which is even better. It’s easy work. 

“Spidey!”

He resists a sigh. 

“Are you stalking me?” It’s a genuine question.

She takes a moment to think about it, which says enough. She isn’t wearing the mask today but Miles would recognise those gigantic puffs of hair anywhere. 

“Maybe,” is the conclusion. Nice.

“I would appreciate less stalking,” he informs.

“Uh-huh,” she agrees, “What’re you doin’?”

Miles purses his lips. “Stuff.”

“Spider stuff? Are you looking for a bad guy?”

He was enjoying the streetview from this fire escape. “Yes,” he says.

“Oh!” Her eyes go wide. “Let me help! I have a magnifier glass,” she shrugs off a hot pink backpack and starts fumbling through it resolutely. 

“Actually–”

“Got it!” She wields the tiniest magnifying glass Miles has ever seen. She smashes it right into his left eye without warning. “What can you see?”

Absolutely nothing, you’ve blinded me. Miles takes a second to regain his senses, eye throbbing. “Um,” he blinks, “Wooooow, everything is so clear, can I hold it?” He takes ahold of the torture device and eases it off his face. “Why don’t you try?”

“I’ve already used it,” she looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“Oh,” Miles says, like an idiot. “Well, you haven’t used it here, have you? Look, you can see into that apartment across the street. They’ve got a dog.” He can’t see the dog, but he can hear its bark.

She takes the glass and squints, nose scrunching. “It’s a puppy!” She gasps. “And– and they got a massive TV.” Maybe he shouldn’t have encouraged spying into stranger’s homes. Miles takes the glass back.

“Let’s uh, do somethin’ else,” he clears his throat. “Why don’t we find your parents?” 

She grabs his hand, squeezing tightly, and Miles is too startled to do anything but stare as she glares up at him. “You’re tryna’ get rid of me so you can do your secret mission alone!”

Miles widens his eyes, blinking guileless with raised shoulders. “Me?” He scoffs, placing a hand over his heart. “Getting rid of you?  Why would I— don’t you know I’m called friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?”

She loosens her grip, expression wavering. “That’s… true.”

“I can’t believe you,” Miles shifts away from her. “I thought we were friends, Spidey.”

“We’re friends?!”

Ah crap.

Miles is so glad he wears a mask. “Of course we are.”

“Are we best friends?” Her hands are clasped together like a prayer. Miles is not looking for worship right now. 

It’s a lose-lose situation but let’s not make it worse. “I already have a best friend, sorry.”

“Who?”

Why are kids so damn nosy?

“You wouldn’t know her,” he says.

“Is she your girrrlfriend?” 

“No!” He immediately protests. Blood in the water.

She bites. “She is! She is! Spidey has a girlfriend!” She starts jumping up and down, yellow rain boots slamming into metal. The fire escape yawns and creaks. Miles places a hand on the top of her large head. Let’s not do that, thanks.

“Not my girlfriend,” he tries for indifference. It comes out far more disgruntled than he’d like.

“You’re lying, you’re lying!” She’s so loud.

“She’s not,” he resists the urge to thump her head. That would not be friendly, after all.

“Is she pretty?” She wiggles on the spot.

Miles turns away to face the street, elbows on the metal railings. He swallows. “I guess.” Yes.

“Let’s go see her!” 

“What? No.”

“I wanna meet her!”

“No way.”

“But I want to!”

“Oh my– ” Miles drags a palm down his face. “She’s not around anymore,” he doesn’t know why he says this, but once he starts, well, “She left and I’m never going to see her again.”

A body squirms its way under his arm until he’s got the girl staring right up at him, head to chest.  “D’you miss her?” She asks.

“A little,” he says.

“You have no friends,” she says with certainty, as though it’s a universal fact. Spider-Man has no friends. It’s a little creepy, how wide and serious her eyes appear.

“I have friends,” he’s offended.

“Yes, me!” Her expression quickly loses solemnity, grin wide and toothless.

“I have others.”

“Like who?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. He has friends. He has Ganke, even though they don’t hang out, not really. But they live together, it’s different. Miles has friends. For some reason, he says, “I don’t know.”

She seems to take pity on him. “What about the homeless boy?”

Miles blanks. “Who?”

“Fluttershy is his favourite, remember?” She says it slowly, like he’s stupid.

“Oh, him,” Miles realises. “Yeah, he’s my… friend.”  Truer words have definitely been spoken.

“So, you got two,” She flashes a peace sign. “Two friends!”

Hurrah. “Wow,” he tries to inject some enthusiasm.

“I liked him,” she says.

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Homeless guy!”

“Oh, cool.” It’s not cool.

“Can I tell you something?” She twists her mouth, contemplating. That’s a first, where was this lovely consideration for Miles’ input earlier?

“Sure,” he concedes.

She wrings her hands together. Miles steps back to give her space but she follows right after him. 

“Okay, this might hurt your feelings.” Now she cares? Miles holds his tongue. 

“It’s okay, I won’t get angry,” he says, sounding a little like a parenting book headline.

“I think,” she bites her lip,” you’re a bit mean to your homeless friend.”

“What?” Miles balks, because seriously? Out of all the things–

“You looked at him so squinty,” she continues on, pressing her fingers to the corners of her eyes. “Angry like this,” she frowns heavily. 

He scoffs, “I did not–”

“You did, you did!”

“Not–”

“Did–”

Miles is arguing with a child. He’s fifteen. She’s like, six. 

“Not,” he insists.

“You’re a liar!”

“I didn’t– you know what, he deserved it!” Miles crosses his arms. Then he uncrosses them. He starts to pace the short length of the fire escape. He throws out an arm. “He totally deserved it. Do you know how bad he’s messed up my sh– crap? I was chillin’ before that guy showed up and–”

“You hate him because he lost his home?”

Miles pauses, arms held in air and mouth open wide. She stares up at him with the most disappointed expression Miles has ever seen, head tilted like a forlorn puppy.

“What?” Miles flounders, posture deflating. “What, no, I don’t– that’s not the reason.”

“Then why?”

Well, that should be obvious, it’s because…

Why?

He was going to hurt me.

He wants me to restore the collider.

He’s rude. He’s annoying. He’s…

Wearing my uncle’s gear.

Miles swallows, shoulders slumping further. “I dunno.” It feels too honest.

He doesn’t know. It’s all of it. None of it. Man, this is so tiring. What happened to the simple stuff? Saving the day, going to school, waiting for the day that he finally figures out how to reach—

Huh.

Isn’t that what he wants? A way to reach them?

Miles’ eyes widen.  

This is it, isn’t it? This is the sign he’s been looking for. It’s been staring right at him. Finding a way home. It’s not just for the doppelganger, it’s for Miles too. He thought it’d take years, going to Princeton and researching his ass off about dimensional travel— but he can do it now. This is his chance. That’s what he should have been focusing on.

“I’m an idiot,” he realises.

“Yup,” she agrees.

The sun is starting to set. “Let’s get you home,” he says.

“What? But we didn’t even catch a bad guy!”

“Next time, Spidey,” he has a feeling he’ll regret saying that. “How about we swing you home?”

He watches her eyes sparkle in real time. “Yes! Yes!”

They swing. She screams his ear off, chubby arms squeezing the air out of his neck. Miles ends up outside a very familiar street.

“Right here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like, right here?”

“Yup, my room is there, can you see? Can you see my pink bed? I’ve got stickers on my ceiling. They glow.”

Miles sets her down. He leads her up the steps. They ring the buzzer. An older woman answers.

“Dayo, where have you been?”

Dayo points a finger. “With Spidey.”

The woman notices him. She thanks him, the usual spiel. Miles is friendly. Dayo gives him a hug that feels more like an attack but he takes it in stride.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dayo tells him as she’s ushered inside.

Miles wisely does not confirm or deny that.

If he stands on the sidewalk for an extra minute or two, that’s no one's business.

You know, when Miles adopted the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man mantle, he wasn’t expecting it to be quite so… literal.

He stares at his own bedroom, adjacent to a bedroom with pink curtains and glow in the dark stickers.

He sighs.

|||||

“How was Shakespeare?” Miles tries for civility, tossing his mask onto the top bunk.

The doppelganger considers him. “Interesting.”

“Really?” He has trouble believing that.

“Really.”

There’s not much else to say. Not much else that is polite, anyway. Miles busies himself with folding up his suit. Ganke’s still missing, must be at a club. Or something. Miles doesn’t really watch his roommates' movements. Miles is hungry. Miles has a decision to make. He stalls. He opens his phone, checks the weather app, closes the weather app, opens the calendar app, closes the calendar app, opens–

He risks it. “You hungry?” 

He doesn’t glance up.

Silence. Great. He’ll just pretend he never asked. Opens the weather app, again.

“I could eat.”

That’s such an asshole thing to say.

“Cool, me too,” he sniffs. “There’s a kebab place.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“Cool.”

Miles puts his shoes on. Keeps his web-shooters, just in case. Tugs on a hoodie, and then hesitates. Pulls out another hoodie. He flings it behind him. “Can’t go out in uniform,” he says in lieu of a proper explanation. It’s not true, but it makes them less recognisable.

Miles leaves through the window. The doppelganger leaves through the school entrance. 

They don’t talk on the way. 

“Can I get, uhhh,” Miles squints up at the menu. It’s so bright in here. “Chicken shawarma. No tomatoes. Or onions.” He turns, “what d’you want?”

The doppelganger mouth twists, like he’s in pain. It takes him a moment. “...The same.”

Oh. Miles grimaces as he hands over the bills. They have the same taste buds. That’s more upsetting than it should be.

They eat it on the steps of a random apartment complex. Miles is so hungry. He inhales it. He should’ve bought two. Subtly, he eyes the shawarma in the doppelganger’s fist. The doppelganger side-eyes him, shifting away. Miles is unreasonably offended.

There’s something weird in the air. They’re in stasis. Maybe Miles is tired of fighting. Or maybe, he’s a coward. Too hesitant to poke the bear. He could pick a fight right here. He would win. He has a lot to be angry about. He does. He does… He balls up the greasy plastic between his fingers. It’s hard to talk unless it’s throwing out an insult. Miles isn’t hateful, he knows this. But.

Well that’s part of the problem. There’s an exception sitting next to him. He’s not hateful until he is. Miles has the potential to be the boy next to him. Miles doesn’t want to talk to him because he doesn’t want to know him. 

You’re scared of that? Seriously? Gwen raises an eyebrow. He blinks away the mental image.

Yeah, yeah, okay, he’s a coward. 

Whatever.

But it’s not whatever, you’re braver than this, kid. Peter insists.

Miles shakes his head.

“I was thinkin’,” he gets the ball rolling before he can throw it. “We should check out where the old collider was. There might be stuff we can use.”

The doppelganger pauses mid-chew.

“Yeah?”

Miles swallows. “Yeah.”

|||||

It looks different. Miles sees the site often enough, it’s pretty large and pretty hard to ignore. The destruction still hasn’t been fully cleared. It’s a collision of rubble and dust and heavy machinery that has started to rust. At night, it looks worse. At night, it looks more like that night. 

Miles rolls his shoulders and pulls his hood up. 

“Try and find anything intact,” he says, more to himself. “This area is patrolled, so, lookout for flashlights.” It’s more of a cautionary warning for the doppelganger. 

He doesn’t get a response, which is just as well.

There’s not a lot that hasn’t been recovered. Still, he looks. A few cables that have seen better days. A strange battery holder. Rocks. Stones. More rocks. Oh, look, there’s some pebbles too. He has a feeling that ‘rebuilding a collider’ was never an option. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Miles shoves what little he’s secured into his hoodie pocket. He turns, “you got anything?”

He does a double-take. What the–

“I said intact, man.”

It’s too dark to see, but he knows the doppelganger is raising a haughty eyebrow at him.

“I heard.”

Miles is dubious. “That’s a bunch a’junk.”

“Maybe to you,” the doppelganger says in a tone that Miles takes offence to. “Never seen a beam pipe?”

Miles bristles. “I have, but those are busted.”

“Maybe to you, ” the doppelganger repeats and then adjusts his stance, tilting his head in consideration. “Your tío doesn't teach you anythin’ huh?”

Miles’ chest beats violently, like he’s just been jump-scared. “He did,” he says.

I let you down, man, I let you down.

“He does,” Miles says. It echoes. Hollow.

The doppelganger stares for a second too long. “Not enough. Or he’s just not as good.” As mine.

“Stop, man.” 

There must be something in his voice. The doppelganger stops.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Miles says, “Give it to me, I’ll turn invisible.”

Miles carries the doppelganger’s busted and rusted treasures. The doppelganger carries his fists. They walk. 

It should be a relief to leave the site. Miles feels no different.

|||||

Ganke’s on the bottom bunk playing the PS5, as usual. 

“You raid through a dumpster?”

Miles shrugs. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Not junk,” the doppelganger mutters, already rifling through said junk on the floor.

Ganke gives Miles a look. Miles shrugs again.

“Where’s the battery holder?”

Miles hands it over. Then against his better judgement, he crouches down next to the doppelganger. He makes sure to level an expression of pure condescending doubt. “How’s this gonna make a collider?” 

The doppelganger doesn’t spare him a glance. “It won’t.” His ‘w’s sound like ‘r’s. 

Miles frowns. Then why the hell did I carry this shit back?

“These beams are titanium, fool. You crushed my claw. Need a new one.”

“You’re making another claw.”

“What I just said.”

Miles stands. “You’re making another claw.” He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Closes it. In the end, there is only one question.

“Why?”

The doppelganger looks up at him. “If I go back home without it, I shouldn’t go back at all.”

Miles doesn’t understand. “What?”

“It’s not the same,” the doppelganger goes back to tinkering. “You don’t need the suit. I need the claw.”

Miles' shoulders go taut.

You don’t need the suit.

“You don’t know anything about—”

“If you’re not prepared,” the doppelganger interrupts. “You’re done. Muerto.” Dead.  

“What? Dude, I know you don’t need that,” he points to the unconstructed pile of metal. “To stay alive.”

“You don’t know anything,” the doppelganger says, voice tight. “We’re not the same. Brooklyn ain’t the same. You wouldn’t last a minute. You don’t even know what—” he stops, mouth thin, and then continues. “You think you need the suit? I need this.”

Miles stares.

“You won’t attack anyone with it,” it comes out like a question. You won’t attack me?

The doppelganger stills. Silence pervades. Miles starts to think he won’t answer. 

“As long as they don’t attack me first.”

|||||

The doppelganger continues to build. Miles… watches. What? It’s interesting alright. He’s not at Visions Academy for nothing. He’s a good learner. He watches, and he learns. Eventually he takes a seat beside the boy. The doppelganger doesn’t protest aside from a disgruntled glance. He’s a quick worker. The same hands but different. Miles’ hands are quick, too. Just different.

There’s a hulking piece of metal curled in on itself. The doppelganger pulls at it hard, wrist twisting. It slowly yawns apart. He’s strong.

“Lemme,” Miles buts in, leaning forward and taking the metal, uncurling it with ease. He hands it back and tries not to be too smug about it.

The doppelganger raises an eyebrow. Miles readies himself for an insult.

Another piece of metal is dropped onto his lap.

“Do the rest,” the doppelganger orders.

Miles opens his mouth. Closes it. He uncurls that metal as well.

The doppelganger nods.

Miles grabs another piece.

“Huh,” Ganke utters.

“What?” Miles questions.

“Nothing, dude. It’s just quiet. Let’s put some music on.”

Miles grimaces. Ganke’s taste in music is… very beat-drop heavy. Not a bad thing, but well, there’s a time and a place.

“Not too loud, last time we got a complaint my dad lectured me for an hour.” About times, and places. It was real eye-opening. He also said some choice things about Ganke but Miles won’t mention that.

His parents are so hot and cold with his roommate, one minute he’s a lovely young man, very smart and the next he’s so disrespectful, did you know he called me by my first name? My first name?  

Beside him the doppelganger gives Miles a look that he can’t really decipher, somewhere between indifference and disdain? Maybe boredom? He’s not too sure. For someone with his face, it should be a lot easier.

“You guys can pick,” Ganke chucks over the speaker. Which would’ve hit Miles in the back of his head if not for inhuman reflexes. He’s certain that Ganke tries to catch him off guard by throwing heavy objects without warning just to see if one day it’ll land.

Miles takes out his phone. He’ll just put on a pop playlist. 

Ayy, ayy, ayy, ayy.

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooooh.

His phone is snatched. The song pauses. The culprit is already exiting the playlist and scrolling through his Spotify. “No way I’m listenin’ to that,” the doppelganger pulls a face.

“That’s a good song!” Miles protests, palm open and reeling from the theft.

The doppelganger ignores him. 

Alls my life I have to fight, nigga.

Alls my life I

The doppelganger tosses his phone back without a word. Miles doesn’t change the song, instead he picks up a piece of metal. The doppelganger continues building. It’s starting to come together. A little. They need more.

“We’ll have to go back,” Miles says. Strangely enough the realisation doesn't fill him with dread like he thought it would.

“Yeah,” the doppelganger agrees.

Miles hesitates. “Hey,” he starts. “D’you like Spanish?”

The doppelganger doesn’t dignify that with a response. Fair enough.

“I got a nine AM,” Miles rolls on, “but uh, I missed last week. And the week before. There was homework–”

“I’ll do it.” 

Miles blinks. “Huh?”

“I’ll do it,” the doppelganger repeats, a little sharper.

“My homework?” Miles tries not to sound so desperately hopeful.

“Class.”

“Forreal?” Miles hopes he’s not imagining this conversation. “You’ll go to my nine AM? ” 

The doppelganger kisses his teeth, frown heavy. “Didn’t I just say?”

Miles’ mind is already wandering. He doesn’t have to go to his nine AM. The possibilities are endless. He can sleep more. Maybe a morning patrol? And then more sleep? He’s getting ahead of himself. 

He's overcome with emotion. He puts a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Bro.”

The doppelganger shoves him off. “Shut up, fool.”

Do you hear me, do you feel me? We gon’ be alright.

“You guys want Oreos?” Ganke waves around a pack.

The doppelganger is already standing and taking a handful before Miles can even respond. 

“Throw me two,” Miles offers up a palm.

Ganke aims for his forehead.

They eat Oreos like hungry teenage boys do– in a matter of minutes. Then Ganke pulls out a bag of chocolate chip cookies. The night gets ten times better. 

“Play,” Ganke demands after throwing a PS5 controller at Miles unprovoked. “And you,” he chucks another controller.

They play Fortnite.

“You’re so shit,” Miles realises with glee.

“I don’t know these controls,” the doppelganger grunts.

“Shit as hell,” Miles laughs.

“Someone get my reboot card,” Ganke orders.

“Wait, I’m getting sniped,” Miles frantically builds.

“I’m dead,” the doppelganger informs.

Miles snorts.

“Reboot card,” Ganke nudges him.

“Inaminute oh my– you killed me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did, you pushed me and I got distracted–”

“Should’ve got my reboot card–”

“This game is stupid.”

“You’re stupid!”

“We’re going again. Ready up.”

“I don’t wanna play with you if–”

“Ready up.”