Chapter Text
Miles wakes up first, midmorning light streaming in from his window, blinds only half closed from last night. Hobie is curled around him, like some sort of lanky koala, one arm thrown haphazardly across Miles’ shoulder, one leg thrown across Miles’ legs, the other one kneeing him in the back. Miles hardly notices. He’s still drowsy, letting his eyes fall back shut, existing in that strange space between asleep and awake. That is, until it’s shattered by three loud knocks at his door.
“Mijo, I made breakfast if you want…” Miles mami’s voice trails off quickly. Her eyebrows raise as Hobie stirs awake, detangling himself from Miles and pushing himself up, breath hissing out in pain.
“And who is this?” Her tone is even, but the way she crosses her arms lets Miles know that the second Hobie leaves that they’re having a talk. One that will most likely result in him being grounded. “Is this another one of your… spider-friends?”
After his whole ordeal with the Spot, Miles had finally come clean about being Spider-Man. His mami took it surprisingly well, almost as if she had been expecting it. His dad took a bit longer to come around. Still, both of them were supportive, if a bit fearful about what being Spider-Man entailed for their son. After his ‘coming out’ he had slowly begun to introduce them to the other spider-people. ‘Gwanda’ was reintroduced as Gwen. Next was Peter. Then Pav. He had been meaning to introduce Hobie, but he never seemed to be over when his parents were home. Hell, they didn’t usually spend much, if any time at Miles’ place when he was over; either walking – swinging – aimlessly around Brooklyn or going to local art galleries and shows. Miles had thought about asking Hobie to stay over for dinner multiple times, but always chickened out at the last minute. He doesn’t want to make Hobie (or himself, really) feel uncomfortable, or pressure Hobie into it. A silly thought, as Hobie Brown never does anything he doesn’t want to.
Speaking of, Hobie finally decides to slide off the bed and join Miles. He stretches, joints popping, before draping a long arm across Miles shoulders, practically leaning on him. He nods in the direction of Miles’ mami.
“Name’s Hobie, Hobie Brown. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Morales,” he says, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. He provides no information to why he is in Miles’ room, wearing Mile’s clothes as she takes in his appearance, eyebrows raising.
“He showed up last night injured!” Miles rushes to add. “And he was bleeding a lot, I couldn’t just tell him to leave!”
His mami pinches the bridge of her nose. “No estoy enojado contigo,” she says, and Miles just looks at her. “Okay, I’m a little mad. I just don’t understand why you didn’t get me. I could have helped.” She turns to Hobie. “I’m a nurse,” she offers as an explanation.
“Right on,” Hobie says, nodding.
Miles shoots him a look. “Not helping!” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Hobie just shrugs, and Miles resists the urge to face palm.
“You and dad both worked long shifts yesterday, I didn’t want to wake you,” he says, turning back to his mami. That was only half true. With the other half being that Miles had been actively panicking while stitching Hobie up, going to get her the farthest thing from his mind.
She just hums in response, clearly unimpressed with Miles excuse, focus shifting over to Hobie. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
Hobie nods, slipping his (Miles’) shirt off. The bruising has already faded to almost nothing, and – unwrapping the gauze – the stiches he put in also look good. Better than he thought they would, considering Miles had to do them in the dark.
“You’re lucky you spiders heal fast,” Miles’ mami says, giving him a pointed look after checking the gunshot wound. Okay, so maybe that one didn’t look all that great, but at least he did a decent job on the lizard claw ones. “Any other injuries?”
“Jus’ a dislocated shoulder,” Hobie says. “Fixed it though.” He rotates his arm a bit, it seemingly no longer causing him any pain.
“You relocated it yourself?” Miles’ mami asks. The look on her face is one Miles knows well. He had taken to calling it the ‘what the ever-loving fuck were you thinking?’ look. He just cringes, knowing what is coming next.
“Nah, Miles did it for me. Did a pretty good job, don’t even hurt no more.”
The look his mami gives him could melt glass. She pinches the bridge of her nose again, eyes closed. She’s muttering under her breath, a litany of English and Spanish as she paces Miles’ room. Even with his spider-hearing, he can’t pick up everything she says, but he gets the gist of it. Apparently, they were stupid for relocating Hobie’s shoulder themselves, and should have either woken her up, or taken him to the urgent care down the street. Yes, because it would be so easy to explain to the doctors why two teenagers were stumbling in at 3 AM, one with a gunshot wound and claw marks. Really it was more the claw marks. Gunshot wounds could be explained away, but what were they supposed to say about the giant fucking claw marks? That Hobie fell into the Central Park Zoo’s grizzly bear exhibit? Not to mention that Miles was near certain he couldn’t get Hobie into their ‘overpriced, discriminatory shithole of a healthcare system’ – his words, not Miles' – if he paid him. That, and the likelihood that they would run blood tests and find something funky about Hobie’s DNA – thanks spider powers – cemented the hospital as a permanent no go.
Miles looks back over to Hobie to gauge his reaction, maybe get some back up, only to find the older spider once again laying down on Miles’ bed, eyes closed, appearing to be half-asleep. But the small smirk on his face lets Miles know that he was at least cognizant of what was going on, and was actively choosing to fall back to sleep. He must realize Miles it looking at him – stupid spider-sense – as his smirk breaks into a full smile. Asshole, Miles thinks fondly.
“Mami, you know why we can’t –” Miles starts, only to be cut off by her raising her hand.
“Which is why you should have woken me up.” Miles goes to protest, but is cut off again. “If you are not going to go to a hospital, promise me you will wake me up. Whether it’s you or one of your spider-friends. Promise me that Miles.”
“I promise,” he huffs, looking way. He already has a hard time not feeling bad, guilty, just overall like a shit human being every time he gets injured in a fight and didn't tell his parents. He couldn't stand even picturing the looks of worry on their faces let alone having to look his mami in the eyes and explain how and why his ribs were cracked, his arm was broken. It would be even more painful than the wounds themselves. But he would do it. If it brought her peace of mind he would do it.
“Miles…” she says. And oh god, that look. He knew that look. It was the one he was giving Hobie last night. Fear and familial love.
“I mean it. If this happens again, I'll tell you.” He can't bring himself to say when, even though they both know that's what he means. He's Spider-Man, it almost never is an 'if'.
His mami wraps him in a tight hug, planting a kiss on his cheek. His face heats up, embarrassed that Hobie is here to witness this, but lets it happen. He owns her that much.
She pulls away first, hands still on his chest, gently flattening the creases on his t-shirt before pulling away completely. “I’ll let you two get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs when you want it.” With that, she leaves, pulling the door closed behind her.
Miles lets out a sigh before he turns to glare at Hobie, embarrassment quickly turning into annoyance. He is still laying on his bed, but with his eyes open now, staring directly at him, shit-eating grin still on his face.
“Thanks for the help back there,” Miles says sarcastically, turning away and digging through his wardrobe. He pulls out a pair of well-worn jeans and an oversized hoodie.
“Ey, you had it under control,” Hobie says. He sits up from the bed, shirt still off.
Miles eyes land on the bullet wound, then drift to the gashes. The stiches look healed enough to take out at this point - that horrible, puckered swelling that happened with fresh stitches completely gone - but Miles wasn’t about to do that himself. Not after his mami’s rant. Instead, he goes back to his dresser, and pulls out another shirt – a gift from an aunt who greatly overestimated how tall he would grow – as well as a pair of jeans he’d never worn – another gift from the same aunt. He tosses them over to Hobie.
“Still, you could have at least… I don’t know, make it seem like I at least kinda knew what I was doing,” Miles says with an exaggerated huff. There’s no bite to the words though. No matter how frustrating Hobie manages to be, Miles finds that he could never stay mad at him. Its equal parts annoying and endearing.
“I said you fixed up my arm, didn’t I?”
Miles laughs, “Sure, okay.”
Hobie doesn’t respond. Ignoring the clothes tossed his direction, he kneels down to pick up the tattered remains of his suit, his pants, and his now bloodstained shirt and battle vest. A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as he examines them, the vest more so than the shirt. It’s covered in what are no doubt dozens of hand made patches and buttons. Nearly the entire left side is covered in a dark, burgundy red.
“Fuck, that’s going to take forever to get out,” he says with a sigh. He balls them up and tucks them under his arm, walking toward the window. “Thanks for patching me up, I’ll see you ‘round.”
Miles darts forward, blocking the window before Hobie can open it. Miles just stares at him, trying to replicate the look his mami gives him when he’s doing something that she doesn’t approve of. Either Miles isn’t doing a good job at it, or Hobie is somehow immune to the look, because he just stares back, head tilted slightly to the side in confusion.
“What’re you doing mate?”
“I’m not just going to let you swing off while you still have stitches in!”
“Won’t be doing much swinging. Jus’ popping back to my flat,” he says, tapping his homemade watch. “I’ll take the stitches out when I get there.”
“No, mami would kill me if I let you leave and take them out yourself. At least stay until she can do it. You can have breakfast with us!” Miles tries not to sound pleading, but knows he’s not entirely successful. Just like how him knowing that Hobie is okay now and will probably be nearly – if not completely – healed by the end of the day doesn’t stop him from seeing the blood on his skin in the back of his mind. They way he was swaying on his feet from the blood loss.
Hobie closes the gap between them, and places a long-fingered hand on Miles’ shoulder. “I don’t want to get between you and your family, Miles,” Hobie says. “I got no need of having a relationship with ‘em like Gwendy or Pav. Your mum’s nice enough, but your dad’s a cop. I’m not going to put you in a position of havin’ to pick sides, not after you fought so hard to save ‘em.”
Miles can’t meet Hobie’s eyes. Did he really think he was ‘getting between’ Miles and his family? Sure, it was going to be a hard first introduction (which is why Miles hadn’t been pushing the subject) but that didn’t mean he didn’t want him to meet them. Hobie was his family too, it didn’t matter to him if his dad absolutely hated Hobie’s guts, he would just have to put up with it. It had only taken his dad a few months to come around to Gwen, and both him and mami hated her at first. Miles mami already seemed to like Hobie; so he already had one foot in the door. He looks up - fuck him for being so tall - into Hobie’s eyes, that lazy-neutral expression he wears in most situations on full display.
“My dad’s at work, he goes in at 8 on Saturdays” Miles begins. Hobie opens his mouth to interject, but Miles continues, “And even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t care! The way I see it, you’re just as much family to me as they are. I want Gwen, Pav and you to be able to come over for family dinners. I don’t care if its going to be awkward at first. You’re in my life now and he’s just going to have to deal with it.”
There’s a beat of silence before Hobie starts laughing, big smile on his face as he scoops up Miles into a big hug as if he weighs nothing.
“Man like Miles! You’re brilliant, you are.” he says, dropping Miles back down. He swears he could see tears shining in the corners of Hobie’s eyes. “I’ll stay for breakfast.” Hobie smirks. “But not because you told me to.”
...................................................
Ten minutes later, Hobie is staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, wearing the clothes Miles lent him. They’re much plainer then what he’s used to. The shirt is dark grey and a bit too short. The jeans are black, and simultaneously too large and too small. The waistband’s loose by a few inches, and they sit too high on his ankles. Not nearly as bad as the sweatpants thankfully, but still high enough to be noticeable. He can’t help but be reminded of when he first became homeless, parents taken from him by the government’s negligence. He got clothes where he could find them. In dumpsters outside of major retail chains, in family-owned thrift stores or flea markets when he could afford it– he rarely could. He hadn’t been good enough at shoplifting at that point to nick larger things - including clothing actually in his size, so almost none of his clothes fit right – being limited to what he was lucky enough to find. His wardrobe had been a mod podge of incongruent pieces of clothing. Granted, it still is, but now it’s purposeful, patches adorning every square inch of clothing he owns. He glances down at his battle vest soaking in the sink. The water was still running pink after five washes. He huffs out an annoyed breath, looking back up at his reflection. The prominent dark circles he's used to seeing had faded significantly. They were still there, probably always would be, but it was amazing what a good night of sleep in a bed that didn't have springs poking through the mattress could do for ones complexion.
Hobie doesn't like to make a habit of staying over in other dimensions. He didn't like being away from his own for that long, fearing the worst. But somehow, it felt different now. He rubs the t-shirt fabric between his thumb and middle finger.
There is a difference between these clothes and the ones he grabbed from dumpsters. They are soft, the shirt feeling more like a blanket than anything, the jeans sturdy but flexible. They weren’t crusty, or damp from rain water, or doused in chemicals to keep the homeless from taking them (Hobie had the scars to prove it). They smell nice, like lavender washing detergent and art supplies. A distinctly Miles scent.
Miles, who had called him family. Something Hobie had been holding close him, cradled gently over his heart like prayer. He didn't dare speak it out loud, lest the universe deemed it to be too happy for one Hobie Brown and snatch it away from him. A childish idea, he knew, but one he wasn't quite ready to part with - not when it came to Miles. Gwen. Pav. Until today, that is.
He opens the sink drain, watching the blood-stained water run down in a spiral. He rings out the vest. There was still a pink tinge to some of the lighter patches, but for the most part the blood was gone. He hangs it up next to the shirt over the bath, adding to the gentle *plink, plink, plink* of water droplets hitting the tile.
Miles is waiting for him outside the bathroom, changed into a baggy hoodie and faded jeans.
“Were you able to… uh, clean them?” Miles asks, cringing a bit as they walk down stairs.
“I’ll have to take a scrub brush to the vest when I get back, but yeah. Clean for the most part.” He casts a glance at Miles. “And you don’t have to tiptoe ‘round the subject, its nothin’ I hadn’t had to do before.”
“Yeah, I know. I just – it’s not fun thinking about it.”
"Yeah," is all Hobie can say in return. Blood was never a fun part of the job. No matter how used to seeing it Hobie got, it always left a lingering feeling of wrongness in the air. He thinks of the pink tint to his patches. Blood never really goes away. Not really. It stains, dries and cracks.
It’s the smell of eggs and bacon and the sharp bite of his nails digging into the palm of his hand that knocks him back to reality. His stomach growls, a reminder that he hadn’t managed to get dinner last night.
They make their way into the living room. He hasn’t seen much of the Morales residence, usually only stopping by to grab Miles before leaving. It’s cozy, pillows on the couch and chairs in warm tones of orange and yellow, fluffy blankets draped over the backs of each. It looks lived in in the best possible way. Art – most likely done by Miles – decorates the walls. Mrs. Morales is in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a half-eaten plate of food in front of her. There are two more plates on the table, both already loaded with eggs and bacon. There is fresh cut apples and assorted berries on a serving tray in the center of the table, causing Hobie to blink a few times. It’s been a while since he’s seen fruit that hadn’t come out of a can.
Mrs. Morales smiles when she notices them, and gestures to the two seats. “Sit,” she says, "food should still be warm.”
They do. The food is delicious. The bacon was thin and crispy, the eggs cooked to perfection, seasoning a wonderful mix of salt and spice. And the fruit, holy fucking shit the fruit. Hobie had forgotten that not all fruit had a weird, over-sweet aftertaste from being stored in syrup. It’s easily one of the best meals he’s ever had. Mrs. Morales all but forces seconds on them before they are allowed to leave the table. Not that Hobie’s complaining. He could eat her cooking every day of the week for the rest of his life and never get tired of it, if this meal was anything to go by.
They spend the rest of the day lounging about, watching shitty reality T.V (“No way there’s a show called ‘Milf Manor’. You're fucking with me.”) and playing a plethora of card games (“An' that’s another blackjack.” “I swear to god you're cheating.”). He finally gets his stitches taken out around the time the sun is setting. It hurts a lot less than when Miles had put them in, and he lets him know that.
“I was doing my best!” Miles complains, but there is a smile on his face.
He gets ‘forced’ into having the absolute best enchiladas for dinner before leaving for the night, arms laden with Tupperware containers of the leftovers; a barrowed bag thrown over his shoulder containing his cut-up spider suit and clothes. He had argued halfheartedly about taking the leftovers, but quickly gave in, not one to turn down free food.
With a mock salute he falls back into the portal, landing on the couch in his flat, popping back up instantly to put away the enchiladas. He has to step over and around scattered clothes and half-finished protest signs to get to his dinky little kitchen. The leftover enchiladas are the only thing in there, save some condiments and a few cheap beers. Mrs. Morales would unknowingly be feeding him for the next few days.
He stretches, pleased that the now healed wounds don’t so much as twinge. He’s filled with energy, practically vibrating with it as he grabs a spare suit from his cluttered closest as well as his second guitar – it’s not nearly as nice as the on the lizard man crushed, and is prone to going flat, but would do in a pinch. He throws his vest on over the suit. In the lighting provided by his watch, the patches don't look discolored. All of them cast in those same lovely shades of orange found all around the Morales household.
Without thinking, Hobie sends a message.
Know I just left, but want to pop over for a swing?
Hobie doesn’t even have to wait for a reply before a portal opens up, Miles tumbling out of it, already suited up sans mask, biggest smile on his face.
Hobie doesn’t wait, flinging himself out the window, relishing the way the wind feels on his face before shoving his mask on. He can hear Miles’ yell of “No fair!” as he falls, laughing.
“Catch me if you can, Peter Pan!” he yells back, shooting out two strands of web, launching himself high above the buildings, turning in mid air to watch Miles fly up after him.
It was, by far, the best day Hobie’s had in a long, long time.