Chapter Text
“Catch me," is all Peter demands before Miles realizes, in horror, the key is no longer between his teeth.
Peter is fast for forty.
Thirty-seven? Forty.
Dude's got one too many gray hairs for thirty-seven. (Will Miles have those when he's forty? Or will he be bald by then, like his uncle?)
Peter webbed the override key. The key that solves everything and saves Brooklyn and his mom and dad and uncle.
The key that’s definitely busted up, but Peter doesn’t know that yet; he doesn’t need to know, ever.
“Don’t move,” the kid warns, inching closer as one might close distance with a skittish animal.
Peter isn’t the skittish one here. Kid looks like a spooked deer and wobbles up the building like a baby one. Peter simply crouches against the wall. Chin bristles digging into his palm.
“Fine, Bambi.”
“Uh? Who?”
“I didn't hear that," Peter sounds wounded. "I didn't hear that, you didn't say that-"
"Whatchu you mumbling about?” That’s something dad says to him all the time, calm but clear. Miles hopes the delivery is just as authoritative as Jefferson’s parenting. “The name’s Miles."
The key flips between Peter's knuckles in an easy, skillful motion that doesn't belong to a guy whose atoms could rip apart any moment. He still hasn’t picked up the key is broken. Too caught up watching the jelly-legged pursuer in muted amusement.
"Okay, Miles. I’ll give ya a head-start, Miles. Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine.”
“We don't got time for this.”
Peter scratches his chin. “You’re tellin’ me. How much for a burger here? Man, do I want me a burger. Twenty-five.”
It's then that Miles decides, with absolute certainty, that this dude is a spider-man but not his Spider-Man. Too old, grizzled, not blond. Exhausted face of someone with nothing left and nothing to lose.
Miles digs for the word his dad used on his uncle once. The one that seemed to hurt a lot, because Aaron didn't call the house from then on.
“You’re being really, really Irreverent, man.”
Tight lips wobble, then break. Peter shakes his head, throws it back, and laughs at the sky, shoulders shuddering.
Something tells Miles the laughter is in his favor. Like he’s won over a small piece of Peter B. Parker. It’s only sorta offensive to listen to.
A light switches on in one of the apartments, illuminating the window next to them. Peter doesn’t seem to care, keeps talking. Same flatlined cadence.
“Lay off. It's my endearing quality. So I'm told. Ten.”
Miles' heel catches on the brick wall. Sticks. He tries to scramble up, up, up towards that not-dead-spider-man who looks way too amused given the universe is on the brink of collapse. (Because it’s not his universe.)
Peter’s crouch begins to lock up in that particular way right before a spring or swing. That’s bad. Miles can’t spring or swing yet; Peter can, but it’s not fair. That’s gotta be cheating or something.
Miles makes a strangled noise. Peter looks down.
“Time’s up,” Peter explains.
“Hold up! Time out! Pause, pause, pause, Peter, pau -”
Not-his-and-not-dead-spider-man presses two fingers to his frown-wrinkled temples in a mock farewell, and then those fingers flick down and a string of web shoots from his wrist. Miles didn’t even see his fingers press anything. Just a flick, thwip, and Peter is swinging above.
“Check ya later, kid.”
Miles isn’t fast enough to follow him right away, and isn’t savvy enough to wipe that crooked smirk off the stubbled face.
So that’s what this is now. A game with a straightforward objective: Catch the spider-man, get the override key back.
Alright, fine. Miles is Spider-Man, too. He can catch him. He will.
He has to. He has no choice.