Work Text:
Prowler: yo
Prowler: u up
sunflower: wtf wrong number
sunflower: I’m not ur girl go call her instead
Prowler: I hate u
sunflower: anddd goodnight
Prowler: I can’t sleep ok?
sunflower: oh
Prowler: can I visit
sunflower: np just let me sleep
sunflower: I’ve got a test in 4 hours
Miles sets the phone back on his nightstand and snuggles back into the covers. Patrol took a lot out of him tonight. But his healing factor has been working, and the bleeding stopped by the time he got home to shower. Most bruises have faded from a deep purple to their final stages of pale green. A decent night’s sleep should rid the last of his body aches.
He ignores the familiar sound of a portal opening, now without any collateral damage. Prowler developed it himself after dissecting Miles' watch and had a smile on his face for a week afterwards.
Miles mumbles into his pillow, head heavy, eyes fluttering shut, “You good?”
“Sí. I’m fine.” He has a backpack on, with his hands in his pockets and violet headphones around his neck. The floorboards creak as he walks to the drawing desk, then sits with his back to the bed and sets the backpack at his feet. "You?"
“Mhm.”
Prowler turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. “You sure?”
“I’ll heal.”
The answer satisfies Prowler and he turns back around, flicking on the overhead lamp and pulling out a sketchbook and markers from his bag.
Miles sits up a little, squinting to see better as Prowler spreads the book on the desk and turns the pages. Early on, it’s all Dad and Mamí, with a couple girls here and there. Then it shifts to Uncle Aaron. And lately it’s—
Them. Spiderman and the Prowler. Every page they’re in different, inverse poses.
Prowler mutters, “It’s rude to stare.”
“You having an existential crisis lately?”
“I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I can.” He says it like an offer.
Prowler slouches harder, back hunched. “Please.” He lifts the headphones from around his neck, slides them snug over his ears and flips to a clear page in the sketchbook.
Miles lifts the covers to his chin and turns the other way. The last things he hears are the scratch of marker on paper and the faint strains of the hi-hat and bass leaking through the headphones.
——
Something soft collides with the back of his head. “Wake up.”
Miles grunts. If his spider sense didn’t register it as a threat, then sleep is all that matters.
“Miles, come on, man, your alarm is annoying as hell.”
He reaches out blindly, face still deep in the pillows, and slaps around his nightstand for his charging phone.
“Get up, you said you've got a test.”
Miles groans.
“It’s eight am.”
Miles jolts up, covers flying. “It’s what?” He flies out of bed. “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?” He yanks open his nightstand drawer and pulls his web shooters. He’s gonna have to swing, something he swore he’d cut back on.
Prowler is scrolling on his phone, sitting at the end of his bed against the wall with his knee up. He’s in the same clothes he was wearing last night. “You looked exhausted. When was the last time you slept all night?”
“Not important!” Miles runs to the bathroom and yelps at the sight of himself.
“It’s very important.”
He turns on the faucet and grabs his toothbrush. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’ve got things handled.” He scrubs his teeth for five seconds, then spits and rinses.
“That was not two minutes.”
“Time is relative.” He pumps leave-in conditioner into his hands and smooths it into his hair, watching his curls come back to life. “That could’ve been two-hours in the quantum realm.” He grabs the oil and rubs it in next.
“In this realm, that was gross.”
“In this realm I have an English teacher who is going to murder me if I’m late for another test.” He rinses his hands, then dips his fingers into the face moisturizer and rubs his skin. “I really don’t have time for another punishment paper.” Satisfied, he runs out of the bathroom and grabs his suit from under his bed.
Prowler looks up from his phone, watching curiously as Miles wrestles on his suit and continues, “Technically I shouldn’t even be here, I’m supposed to be at my dorm. Where is my jacket?”
“There, on the crate.”
Miles grabs it, then his Jordans and shoves his feet in one at a time. “My backpack, I need— what classes do I have today? Shit, I didn’t finish my APUSH homework, I meant to wake up early—”
Prowler grabs his shoulders, suddenly on his feet. He reaches up and fixes Miles’ hair so the product is applied more evenly, finger-combing through it. “Get braids, man.”
“Never. That shit hurts.”
“It gets easier. And it’ll save time.”
“Nope. I already got the haircut you all wanted.”
Prowler shakes his head, but doesn’t seem surprised. “Well, your bag is packed, I checked your schedule. And here.” He lifts a brown paper bag from within the bed covers. “Bagel with butter.”
“You got me breakfast?” Miles takes the warm bag and opens it. He's been sworn off bagels for a while but, well, he’s hungry. He takes a giant bite, chewing as fast as possible.
“Because I was bored.” Prowler goes to Miles’ desk and picks up the AP U.S. History textbook, with the homework laid on top. The worksheets are all filled out, in handwriting that matches his own. He turns Miles around and shoves it into his backpack. “I did your Spanish homework too. Now go, you’re still late.”
Miles takes two more giant bites. “You sure those answers are right?”
Prowler snorts and zips his backpack shut. “No.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
Prowler shrugs.
Miles takes another bite and says around his mouthful, “Hypocrite.”
Prowler shoves him towards the window and Miles lets him. “Go. And don’t fail.” He hands Miles his mask.
Miles swallows his food, slides his mask on and opens the window. “Fine, fine,” He leaps from the window. “But we’re talking about your feelings later!”