Archive of Our Own ^beta

Miles didn’t hear the knocking at his window at first.

The raindrops outside were so heavy and weighed down that the sound blended right in. It wasn’t until the knocking turned to tapping, sharp and pointed and insistent as the tip of a talon rapped against the glass, that Miles finally noticed it.

He looked up from his sketchbook, then huffed out a soft laugh at the sight that greeted him.

Even that small motion put a twinge in Miles’ side and an ache in his chest. 

The pain was not debilitating, but it was enough to give Miles pause. He had to sit on the edge of his bed for a moment, waiting for it to pass before setting his pencil and sketchbook aside, then waiting a moment more before he dared to try and stand.

“Making house calls now?”

Miles smiled brightly as he slid open his bedroom window.

Spider-Man narrowed his eyes, the sternness of the expression diminished just a bit by the fact that he was hanging upside down.

It looked a little silly, truthfully, but Miles wasn’t going to say that.

“A building fell on you.” Spider-Man deadpanned.

Miles rolled his eyes. 

“A building did not fall on me. A chunk of concrete did–and if I recall, it fell on you.” He poked Spider-Man’s chest, right in the middle of the skull on his suit. The gentle red glow of it looked like flickering firelight as the rain cut through it, warm and soft and beckoning Miles to come closer. 

So he did.

He carefully perched himself on the windowsill, swinging one leg outside while pulling the other to his chest, being gentle with the motion so as to not aggravate his already aggravated ribs.

It would have been a perfectly warm summer evening if it were not for the rain putting a chill in the air. But Miles didn’t mind it. The cold air felt nice after the oppressive heat of the day, the rain tip tapping on the firescape landing above him like a tin roof. It was a pleasant sound, lulling away whatever stress and worry Miles still had with a gentle lullaby.

“Yeah, well, I can take it.” Spider-Man retorted. “You can’t.” 

Miles didn’t really have an argument for that. 

Being a paramedic, Miles was often in the heart of Spider-Man’s scuffles with whoever or whatever decided to pick a bone with New York’s favorite web slinging arachnid. He’s had a lot of close calls over this past year and a half that he’s had the job, but this one had been…closer than Miles would like to admit. If Spider-Man hadn’t been watching, if he hadn’t knocked Miles to the ground and hovered over him, taking the brunt of the impact as building debris fell around them, Miles probably wouldn't be standing here. 

It was something he was trying not to think about. 

The tension Spider-Man had been carrying slipped from his shoulders. Miles hadn’t even realized just how tense the hero was until the rigidity of his posture fell away. “You shouldn’t have even gotten hurt in the first place—“

“Ah, no—“ Miles cut him off, knowing exactly what Spider-Man was thinking. “—no playing the blame game. I got a little banged up, but that’s not your fault.”

Those wonderfully expressive eyes of Spider-Man’s mask narrowed again. “You broke a rib—“

“It’s one cracked rib, I’m fine. It woulda been a lot worse if you weren’t there.” Miles gave him a soft smile as he leaned a little closer, dropping one hand to curl around the windowsill while reaching out the other to gently place upon Spider-Man’s cheek. “What about you, big guy? You alright?”

Miles had gotten into the habit of checking Spider-Man over at the end of fights and scuffles, despite the other man’s irritation over it and his insistence that I’m fine, I have a healing factor, don’t waste your supplies on me, I’m serious Miles it’s not worth it–

But he hadn’t been able to do that this time.

Gwen had shoved Miles into their ambulance the second Spider-Man brought him back to her, and even if Miles had been able to slip by his partner Spider-Man had already swung off to deal with his renegade and wayward villains. It had been a jailbreak–the police had been able to round everyone up before they got too far, but Vulture and Scorpion had managed to slip away. Not the worst duo imaginable, but enough to keep Spider-Man’s–and Miles’, for that matter–hands full for a little while.

Considering that Miles had just barely avoided a falling building, he had gotten off pretty easy.

Broken rib, cuts and scrapes and bruises, no concussion but a hell of a headache. 

“I’m alright,” Spider-Man echoed. 

Miles hummed softly. The pad of his thumb traced along Spider-Man’s sharp jawline, back and forth, over and over, a rhythm as sweet and gentle as the rain tip tapping above them. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

He couldn’t see it, but Miles was sure Spider-Man was rolling his eyes.

“No, I’m not lying to you.” 

Miles should pull away.

He didn’t.

“Good.” 

Miles instead moved to follow the contours of the teardrops of the eyes of Spider-Man’s mask, stopping at the sharpened tip. He could feel the bow of the older man’s lip, soft and plush, easily yielding to Miles’ touch.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Spider-Man asked quietly. 

“Which one of us is the trained medical professional here?”

“I know, I just—“ Spider-Man cut himself off with a huff. His chest rose and fell in a sharp breath, lips parting just a sliver to let a little more air into his lungs. “You’re the biggest damn headache I’ve ever had, you know that?” 

Miles smiled. “It’s a gift.” 

Spider-Man breathed out a soft laugh. “You’re a gift alright.” 

The silence that fell between them was a heavy thing. It was heavy like a quilt was, warm and comforting despite the chill the rain had put in the air, easily hiding the two of them away from the rest of the world. Another quiet breath slipped from underneath Spider-Man’s tongue. He tilted his head, leaned into Miles’ palm, sweet and pliant like a sleepy cat.

“…I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Miles felt something tight catch in his throat. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Siempre me asustas,” Spider-Man said the words so softly, a confession at an altar, something Miles wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to hear. 

He swallowed a mouthful of sticky sweet honey as he slowly drug his fingers down the length of Spider-Man’s throat. Miles could feel the flutter of the hero’s pulse with each gentle touch, the tattoo of a pleasant melody against his own heartbeat. 

Miles hooked his fingers on the edge of Spider-Man’s mask.

Spider-Man grabbed onto Miles’ wrist.

The rain had grown impossibly loud, a thunderous applause around them as the world–for nothing more than a moment–held completely still. 

Then Spider-Man let Miles go.

Slowly, so achingly, painfully slowly, Miles peeled his mask up—down?—to the bridge of his nose. He traced the sharp lines of Spider-Man’s jaw again, then continued on to the strong bridge of his nose, the tight angles of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his bottom lip. 

And then Miles stopped.

He was not sure where to go, not sure if he could keep going. 

Spider-Man’s tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, showing a flash of fangs and sharp teeth. 

Something hot pulsed in Miles’ abdomen, and then the taste of ozone and sweet mint and copper settled underneath his tongue. 

There was nothing rushed about the kiss Miles suddenly found himself in.

It was slow. Lazy. A gentle exploration of things he and Spider-Man had already known, things they could so easily know if they gave themselves the chance. It was a cracked door, an open window, a fork in the road, a choice. 

Miles pulled back, his heart jackrabbiting as Spider-Man chased after him for a heartbeat before remembering himself, lips still parted as he pulled back. 

“...Miles–”

The sound of a siren cut Spider-Man off, shattering the precarious silence they had drifted into. 

Miles jumped, startled by it, but Spider-Man didn’t react. He only righted himself so he was back upright, hanging onto his web by one hand as he looked out across the nighttime New York skyline like he could see exactly where the sound was coming from. Maybe he could. Miles remembered an off-handed comment the hero had made once about his enhanced senses, how he could see and hear and smell and feel things most other people couldn’t.

“I should—“ 

Spider-Man cut himself off and looked back at Miles.

There was a rosy tint to his cheeks. Whether it was because he had spent so long hanging upside down or it was because of Miles’ own ministrations, he couldn’t say.

“...yeah,” Miles murmured. 

Spider-Man didn’t move. 

“Go,” Miles’ voice was so quiet. “Do your hero thing.” 

He looked hesitant, but as the sound of the siren multiplied and grew louder he tugged his mask down and swung off without another word. 

Miles watched him go, watched long after the red glow of his suit was gone, watched until the heavy rainfall no longer echoed the beating of his own heart. 

It was only then that Miles went back inside and closed the window.