Chapter Text
Miles wasn’t sure what woke him up, the banging on his window, the tingling of his spider-sense, or the adrenaline shooting down his spine. All he knows is that one second, he’s sleeping peacefully and the next he’s perched at the end of his bed, two fingers pressed onto the web-shooter he had gotten into the habit of wearing to sleep, it aimed at the figure on the other side of his window, his body taunt like a stretched rubber band.
It takes him a good five seconds to realize that his spider-sense is not saying ‘danger’, but ‘friend’.
Miles sighs, shoulders slumping as he lowers his arm. He glances over at the clock on his nightstand. 3:02 AM. He sighs again, sliding off his bed and walking over to the window. It’s probably Gwen. She had been over earlier today… yesterday, whatever, and must have forgotten her jacket or something. Dimensions did have different ‘time zones’ as it were, but it would still only be about 6 AM in hers. Miles shakes his head, he’s too tired for this.
It isn’t until he gets closer to the window that he realizes that the silhouette is decidedly not Gwen’s. The shoulders are too broad, arms and legs too long and lanky, and the mask has distinct spikes sticking out from the top of it. Miles only knows one Spider-person like that.
“Hobie?” he says, as the figure opens the window – he really needs to start locking it – and climbs through. Sure enough, Hobie Brown ducks into his room, yanking off his mask, revealing the familiar sight of his piercing dotted face and well-maintained wicks.
“What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you man, but’s its 3 AM,” Miles whispers, not wanting to wake his parents down the hall. Hobie, ironically enough, was the least likely to randomly show up to Miles dimension, let alone this late/early.
“What, I can’t just pop by to see my mate?” His voice sounds strained in a way Miles isn’t used to hearing, enough to set off alarm bells in his head.
He quickly looks Hobie up and down, panic rising in his throat as his eyes land on multiple dark patches staining his suit, the most prominent being one on his midriff and one on his left shoulder. Dark patches that catch the city lights of Brooklyn streaming in through his now opened window in a way unlike fabric or metal. He’s standing board stiff, so unlike him, and his right arm is dangling in a way that makes Miles almost certain that it is dislocated.
Miles swallows thickly, all but running to Hobie’s side to support him. Just in time too, the second Miles reaches him, his knees buckle, Miles catching him. Hobie lets him maneuver him over to the edge of his bed without complaining, bumping Miles panic meter up a few more clicks. Hobie is stubborn, always ready to insist he’s fine after getting injured in a fight, with either Gwen, Pavitr or Miles himself having to force medical care on him.
“What happened?” he asks, guiding Hobie over to his bed.
“You should see the other guy.” Hobie laughs in a way that sounds much more like coughing, and Miles swears he can hear Hobie’s ribs crack (more) from it. “And by other ‘guy’ I mean a bunch of pigs a giant lizard fuck.”
Miles just gives him a look as he eases him down onto his bed. Hobie meets his gaze, corners of his lips hardening in pain. Getting a better look at him, Miles could see the bags under his eyes. His features, normally sharp, now also carry a haggard appearance that looks misplaced on Hobie.
“What. Happened.” Miles cringes internally at the harshness of his tone. His friend was bleeding out on his bed for god’s sake, now was not the time to be pushing him for answers, he could get them later.
He shakes his head a bit as he reaches under his bed to pull out the first aid kit he has stashed. “Never mind. I’m going to need to relocate your shoulder first. Can I…?” Miles reaches out, not wanting to just grab and start pulling on his arm without warning.
Hobie nods, laying down and shifting his arm over to Miles. If he hadn’t known Hobie for over a year now, he would have assumed that he was fine. But he began to pick up on the smaller stuff the longer he knew the punk. An almost unnoticeable clenched jaw, and a crease in his forehead let Miles know just how much pain the older spider was in.
“On three, yeah?” Hobie says, more of a statement than a question.
Miles nods, grabbing onto his arm. “One, two…” On three, Miles yanks hard. There is an audible pop as the joint slips back into place. Hobie, to his credit, doesn't scream, but with how tight his eyes were shut, he has a feeling that he really wanted to.
“Fuck me sideways that hurt,” Hobie breathes out, struggling to sit back up. His eyes, already normally half-lidded, drooped down even further. Exhaustion was written plainly on his face as he took deep, purposeful breaths, obviously trying to stay awake.
Miles helps him get his battle vest and tattered shirt off, both now thoroughly stained red. They resort to cutting the top portion of Hobie’s suit off, not wanting to jostle his shoulder any more than necessary. Even in the dim light, Miles could see just how much blood was caked onto Hobie’s skin. The parts of his skin not covered in half-dried blood were a tapestry of no doubt bone deep bruises. He has to force himself to keep looking at the wounds as he dresses them. The ones on Hobie’s torso are long and jagged. They are deep enough to show the mangled muscle fiber that was no doubt painstakingly stitching itself back together. The one on his shoulder was obviously a gunshot wound. The bullet had passed clean through, a small bit of much needed luck. Miles did his best to stitch the wound closed, but he didn’t have much practice with them, most of his villains choosing more flamboyant weaponry. It didn’t help that his hands started shaking. Like leaves in a thunderstorm. Hobie flinched and tensed as he pulled the thread through. He was hurting him.
Miles’ breath gets caught in his throat. He thought that he would be used to seeing his friends like this, they were superheroes for christ’s sake! His hands shouldn’t be shaking as he cleans the blood off, stiches the wounds up and wraps them in gauze. He’s seen worse, Hobie’s most likely experienced worse. So then why was Miles’ throat tightening? Why were tears threatening to spill down his cheek? He was Spider-Man goddammit! He saved the fucking multiverse! He could handle patching up a friend, right? Right?
The second Miles ties off the gauze on Hobie’s shoulder, he buries his face into his hands, unable to look anymore. All he could see was his Uncle Arron, bleeding out in the alleyway. His father running, rubble crashing down around him. Miles had almost been too late. What if he had been too late? What if Hobie had bled out before he got here? What if Gwen fell like all the others, neck snapping? What if Pav’s dimension collapsed, taking him with it? His breath came in short gasps. What if… what if… what if-
“-iles, Miles! Look at me yeah?” Hobie says, yanking Miles out of his spiraling thoughts. “Are you okay?”
He looks up. Hobie is staring at him, brows pulled into a concerned look. Instead of answering, Miles just lunges forward, wrapping Hobie into a hug. He’s clearly surprised, arms hovering in place for a beat, uncharacteristically uncertain before hugging Miles back. Miles isn’t sure how long they stay like that; he’s clinging to him like the second he lets go he’ll disappear.
Hobie smells like blood, sweat, and dust. His body is all hard lines and sharp edges, lean muscle dense and unyielding. His shoulder - which Miles has his face buried into - was bony despite its broadness. Hobie was thin, thin in a way most spider-people weren't. Thin in a way that spoke to hardship and a few too many missed meals. Thin in a way that spoke to sleepless nights and too much caffeine. Miles hugs him even tighter.
“Please don’t leave me,” he finds himself saying. “I don’t want to – can’t lose anyone else. Especially not you.” His eyes sting from the tears, and he finally lets Hobie go from the probably too tight hug, awkwardly shuffling away.
Hobie stares at him for a second, and Miles feels his face heat up. Fuck, he definitely shouldn’t have said that. But Hobie doesn’t look weirded out, his eyes are impossibly kind and soft. He reaches out with his good (not recently dislocated) arm, and places his hand gently on Miles shoulder. It's warm, so obviously filled with life, practically burning with it.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He says it with such certainty that Miles can’t help but believe him. He laughs, “Come on, its gonna take a bit more than some coppers and a big lizard to put me in the ground innit?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Miles says laughing through the tears now. “I’ll uh – I’ll go get another pillow and blanket.”
Hobie nods as Miles slips out the door and creeps down the hallway and stairs, into the living room, and towards the basket by the couch the housed extra pillows and blankets for guests. Miles’ shoulder was still warm from where Hobie touched it. He could still remember feeling the warmth draining out of his uncle’s hand as he held tight to it, the blood pooling underneath him as his breathing grew ragged. He pictures Hobie in place of his uncle. Then his dad, then Gwen, then – No! Miles shakes his head in an attempt to force the thoughts out. They were all alive, and they were going to stay that way as long as possible. He would make sure of it.
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Hobie gently lays back down on Miles’ bed, eyes falling closed. At the moment, he couldn’t remember a time when he felt worse. Oh, he’s almost certain he has, it was just hard to recall said moments with his head pounding. Every muscle in his body aches like he was run over by a truck. Repeatedly. He tries readjusting his position into something marginally more comfortable, to no avail. The last dregs of adrenaline were still draining from the fight, leaving him lightheaded. Even with his eyes closed, the room still felt like it was spinning. He could hear Miles moving around downstairs, small shuffling noises that – even with enhanced senses – should be relatively quiet, were painful. Fuck, he could hear every creak of the brownstone, every small readjustment made by the wood as the night air continued to cool it down. It was like nails on a chalk board.
He didn’t have to wait long for Miles to return. The second he heard his footsteps on the stairs he all but crawled out of bed. He had barged in on Miles in the middle of the night, bleeding. The absolute least he could do was let him sleep in his own fucking bed.
Miles walks in, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He passes them over to Hobie, who begins setting up on the floor.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Miles asks. “You’re not sleeping on the floor! Not like,” he gestures vaguely at Hobie’s injuries, “this!”
“I’ll be fine," Hobie says as Miles stares at him incredulously.
Miles runs a hand down his face. “Yeah, you will be. Sleeping on the bed.”
“Mate I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”
“There’s enough room for both of us.”
Hobie looks dubiously at the twin bed. He would be lying if he said he wanted to sleep on the ground. Granted, he’d had worse sleeping arrangements. Being homeless from thirteen to nearly seventeen would do that.
“Look, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor, and the couch downstairs is a no go, so either we share the bed, or I sleep on floor.” Miles crosses his arms defiantly.
Hobie drags a hand down his face, familiar cool metal brushing his palm as he does. He’s too tired for this. “Fine.” He pauses for a beat, glancing down at his now cut up suit. “Do you having anything to wear that isn’t soaked in blood and cut to shreds?”
Miles blinks rapidly. “Yeah,” he says, surprised. Hobie laughs, ribs protesting at the motion.
For a solid minute Miles roots around in his closet, before a pair of soft sweat pants and oversized (on Miles) shirt is flung at him. He instinctually catches, trying to hide his wince. If Miles notices, he doesn’t say anything, instead turning around to give some semblance of privacy. Hobie scoffs softy, the man had literary cut his suit off of him, and now his was being modest?
He made as quick work as possible getting changed. The shirt fit well enough, but the pants were a bit short, sitting high on his calves. No matter. Once done he crawls into the bed. Miles follows suit, his back facing away from him. They stay like that for a while, neither sleeping. Miles was the first to break the silence.
“What happened Hobie?” His voice is slightly slurred, clearly fighting to stay awake.
Hobie sighs, piecing together words in his head before replying. “It was a protest, yeah? A pride thing. Lots of queer and trans people, and lots of pigs…”
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Spider-Punk watched the parade slowly make its way down the street from his perch. He wanted to be down there with them, wanted to walk with them. And he could technically. As Hobie Brown it would be easier, he would be one of them, not some ‘hero’ – god he hated that word – following from above. He did make sure the people in the parade could see him, swinging low enough that they could reach up and high-five him if they wanted. And many did. He had traded out his usual battle vest for one done up in rainbow colors, ‘Better to be a faggot than a fascist’ written in bold black letters on the back. He wasn’t fond of labels, but ‘cis’ and ‘straight’ definitely weren’t it.
If it weren’t for the V.E.N.O.M cops (pigs) lining the streets as the parade went on – protesters dressed in a myriad of colors, pride flags worn as capes, masks obscuring many of their faces – Hobie would join as himself. No suit, just ‘average’ Hobie Brown. As it were, that Osborn fuck was determined to silence anything he deemed as ‘radical’; queer and trans people existing now joining that list.
It was the gunshot that sent everything spiraling into hell. Spider-Punk instantly dove into the crowd, V.E.N.O.M cops now rushing onto the streets, firearms aimed at the people, their flimsy cardboard signs proclaiming the need for equity become shields as rifles and guns fired. Hobie shot off his webs yanking people out of harm’s way and pining firearms to the ground. The protesters forcefully turned rioters picked up any and everything they could: broken bottles, chunks of concrete, phones, purses, water bottles and hurled them at the cops. Most bounced off harmlessly, but Hobie saw a few cause the advancing cops to stumble back.
He made it to the front lines, standing tall, guitar in hand plugged into a portable, modified amp hanging at his hip. The chords were heavy and aggressive; loud enough to make the symbiote wrapped pigs quiver and stumble back.
“Get back, take cover!” Hobie yelled behind him. He hated the way his voice sounded, barking orders. He wasn’t in charge of these people; they had every right to fight back.
But they couldn’t bounce back from gunshot wounds. Hobie was harder to break – physically – than them. And when he did, his body would stitch itself back together much faster, even if it was painful.
Some people did listen, others didn’t; volleys of litter and trash still raining down on the pigs as Hobie bashed their heads in with his guitar, hitting hard enough to make sure they wouldn’t get back up. The thrown projectiles did distract the cops, making it easier for Hobie to get the jump on them. Then, he heard a voice.
“Mum! Mum help! Spider-Man!”
They were young, and Hobie saw red. His spider sense screamed at him as he sprinted at the cop, whose gun was aimed at the head of a kid who couldn’t be much older than eleven. He watched in slow motion as the bullet left the chamber, cutting a path through the air towards the child. He grabbed ahold of them, using his body as a shield as he twisted out of the way. He was a second too late – the bullet piercing his shoulder, passing straight through – thankfully missing the kid.
In one clean move, Spider-Punk set the kid down and whipped his guitar at the head of the cop, righteous fury burning strong enough to take it off.
But of course that couldn’t be the end.
A loud roar, like what Hobie knew dinosaurs (thank you Spider-Rex) sounded like.
“Oi, the fuck!” Hobie’s eyes widened beneath his mask as a – no joke – giant lizard man came careening towards the scattered parade. Its scales were a muddy green, muscles and veins bulging underneath it like a overstuffed sausage. It had a collar around its neck in a similar style to the body armor worn by the V.E.N.O.M cops. Of course Osborn would have a big fuck off lizard in his arsenal.
The people who hadn’t run from the cops were running now, the redoubled screams and yells causing Hobie’s ears to ring. He didn’t hesitate, running straight at the easily over ten feet tall lizard man, its tail thrashing, teeth gnashing.
Spider-Punk jumped; guitar aimed at the lizard man’s head. Spider senses screamed as a large, clawed hand – with surprising quickness – swung at him. He twisted his body, claws still hitting their mark, but not completely impaling him like they were aimed too. His guitar was similar, only glancing off the lizards head.
Hobie landed on the ground, hand poised to strike a chord. The lizard grabbed his arm before he could, guitar splintering as he was flung into the side of a building. It shuddered from the force, boards falling off the windows. It had been set to be demolished the following month. He gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs, just barely catching himself as he fell.
He barely had time to register that his guitar – his favorite guitar! – had just been turned into firewood before the lizard was charging again, it on all fours, frothing at the mouth. Spider-Punk followed suit, muscles screaming, gait uneven. At the last possible second, he slid under the beasts legs, shooting a web at the wall of the building and pulling – HARD. The wall gave just before his webs and arms, collapsing onto the lizard as Spider-Punk dived out of the way, coughing the dust out of his lungs. Once the rubble settled, all that was visible was a still twitching tail.
Hobie pulled up his mask over his mouth and nose, taking deep gasping breaths, hands on knees. He looked at the building. They had a project in the works to try and save it, convert it into free living, communal garden and all. Guilt twisted in his chest at the sight of it. A hand touched his shoulder, and he whipped around, adrenaline still taking up more of his veins and arteries than actual blood.
“Sorry mate, that’s my bad.” They were young, but still older than Hobie, most likely – around twenty-five or so, he would guess. They were dressed more simply than other protesters, plain black clothes and a black face mask, but they also had a small non-binary flag pin, ‘they/them’ painted on top in black letters. They were looking at the building too. “That lizard fuck would have destroyed it and killed you and others if you hadn’t stopped it. I know construction workers. We can rebuild.” They smiled at Hobie.
He returned it, but it quickly turned into a grimace as pain from his shoulders, side – hell, his whole body – slammed into him like a freight train. He stumbled a bit to the side, vision dancing black, shaking his head and blinking hard. He didn’t have time for this. He could be hurt later. Be in pain later. Right now he needed to make sure no one was seriously injured. Find them care if they were. Clean up the street so people could make it back to their homes safely.
An arm blocked him as he reached out to move a large piece of rubble blocking the road. “You’ve done enough luv, we can take it from here.” A drag queen decked head to toe in glitter, make-up somehow still immaculate despite the chaos, gently pulled Hobie away from the wreckage. Her hair was in twists, rainbow beads at the end of each one.
“I’m okay,” Hobie insisted, but the queen didn’t move.
“Your shoulder is dislocated luv.” Sure enough, when Hobie looked down, his right arm hung down a bit lower than his left, pain radiating down it every time he attempted to move it.
“Get out of here, and get that sorted. We’re a strong lot,” she said, gesturing to the people, already picking one another up, clearing paths, and comforting one another.
Hobie just nodded, unexpected emotion welling up inside his chest. These people, his people, were stronger than those fascist fucks could ever dream of being. He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak, before swinging off.
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Miles just stares at him, having rolled over halfway through the story, his eyes wide. Hobie doesn’t talk a lot about what his dimension is like. He can’t stand the looks of pity cast his way, the ‘I’m so sorry’s' and “Do you want to crash at my place’s’. He knows his world is a shit hole. He doesn’t want – doesn’t need – empty platitudes. He wants (and needs) change. But Miles wasn’t looking at him like that. His eyes shone with understanding. Hobie’s dimension might be obviously bad, with a fascist dictator as a Prime Minister, the royal family funding and ensuring his reelection every four years, the working class, the marginalized constantly being stepped on for more power. But police brutality existed in Miles world, in Gwen’s world, in a good many worlds other than Hobie’s own. He had seen it. Crazy billionaires funded ‘scientific’ experiments that resulted in holes being blown straight through the multiverse. Miles had told him all about Kingpin, every new fact making Hobie want to break into the jail keeping him so he could bash him with his guitar.
“You still should have called for backup, I could have helped,” Miles says softly, shaking Hobie out of his Kingpin hate spiral, fondness for the younger spider swelling in his chest like a balloon.
“Yeah, alright,” he says, a small smile creeping up on his face.
It’s a strange feeling, having friends – having family. He had community, be he couldn’t (wouldn’t) get too close to them, fearing the worst. He would always keep them at arm’s length. Not out of lack of trust. No, never that. Hobie intentionally made himself public – and by ‘public’ he meant the billionaires and fascists – enemy no.1. And he would never (could never) regret that decision. It did mean he was alone, even surrounded by fellow activists, fellow anarchists in his selfless (selfish) want to protect them. So it’s nice to have Miles, to have Gwen, to have Pav. It’s a luxury he never thought he would get.
Silence stretches out between them, gentle and comforting. Hobie lets his eye’s fall shut, sleep coming to him more quickly than it had in a long, long time.