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2023-07-06
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2023-07-09
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2/?
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night falls fast

Summary:

Some days, Miles feels like he's soaring. Other days, he's never felt so low. Those are the days he never talks about.

or

Five times Miles needed help and got it.

Notes:

Okay, so! This fic is basically me giving Miles like half of my mental illnesses. So, take it all with a grain of salt as far as in-characterness goes. Please read warnings and tags and take care of yourself! If you're struggling with these things, too, I hope you feel seen and know that I'm in your corner.

Title is taken from the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem "Night Falls Fast"

TRIGGER WARNINGS: anxiety, panic attack

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Miles is, underneath a carefully constructed cocky exterior, an anxious person. He can't help it sometimes. As confident as he tries to be, once his brain gets going and the train starts to derail, there's little he feels he can do to stop it.

It's always over the silliest things. Simple things that everyone else can do fine but he can't. He's only just figured out how to order for himself at the sandwich place down the road without feeling like his heart is in his throat. He sometimes wonders about the wiring in his brain, wonders if you would find them all fried and frayed inside his head if you opened it up.

For example: his dad wants to teach him how to drive, and rather than enthusiastically jumping at the chance to practice like every other teen his age, Miles is hiding out in Headquarters. He is staring out the window at the tangle of traffic below, picturing himself in the thick of it, headlights blinding, noise overwhelming, and always just a few inches too close to death. He's saved enough lives to know how thin the line is. He doesn't want to be victim to it, either.

It's silly, he knows. He swing through the city at breakneck speeds, where one wrong move could kill him. But then, at least he'd have total control. On the road, everyone else around him could change the outcome of his life. It's dramatic, he knows it's dramatic, but he's scared and he doesn't want to admit it because everyone drives and he knows he needs to get a grip, but he'd much rather rely on himself and his webs.

"Miles!" a voice shocks him out of his thoughts and he whips around. "Why the air of melancholy on this fine Tuesday evening?" Peter B., holding a grinning Mayday on his shoulders, asks.

Miles grimaces. "Nah, man, only positive thoughts over here."

"Oh, someone's been to therapy," Peter teases. "Is it working?"

"Not well enough," Miles mutters, turning and staring into the traffic below. Peter frowns, looking uncharacteristically serious.

"Nickel for your thoughts?" Peter pries, and Miles cringes.

"Oh my god. It's penny. Penny for your thoughts."

"That feels too cheap," Peter argues.

"It's a four cent difference," Miles deadpans.

"And you're avoiding the question," Peter points out. Miles scowls.

"Since when did you become astute?"

"I always was," Peter says, a smug look on his face. And he's right, Miles thinks. Peter, for all his quippy one-liners and goofy demeanor, is sharp and deadly. He can read a room in seconds, can mold himself to fit it. He's a class act in luring you into a false sense of security before he strikes, swift and lethal. Bet he's never been afraid to drive, Miles thinks bitterly.

"C'mon, buddy, spill. This is a judgment-free zone," Peter coaxes.

Miles sighs. "It's so stupid," he mumbles.

"Terrible self-talk. Try again."

"It just feels like a fear I shouldn't have," Miles tells him.

"My therapist says that feelings are real but not always true," Peter says wisely. "I wouldn't trust them to tell you the truth. What's the fear?"

For a long moment, Miles says nothing, continuing to stare out the window. Then he darts a look over at Peter, sees the achingly earnest expression on his face, and Miles thinks he knows why Mayday is such a baby. Miles struggles, for a moment, to bite back his words, feels them kicking at his teeth, before the dam breaks and he lets them out in a rush.

"Driving. I'm afraid of driving," Miles says quickly. "And it's so stupid because everyone drives and everyone is so excited to learn but I've saved enough people—and not been able to save them—from wrecks and I can't shake the feeling that that'll be me one day. And it's like, I feel like once I'm behind the wheel and I crash, that's it. That's so many thousands of dollars down the drain because I fucked up. And I know it can't be that bad because everyone else seems to do it just fine, literally people my age, so I know it's doable, but I'm just... scared."

"Breathe, Miles," Peter says soothingly, and Miles hadn't even noticed the way his breaths had picked up, coming out in harsh pants. His chest is a chasm of self-loathing and anxiety, and he wonders how far down it goes. It's probably best not to think about it. Miles takes in a breath.

"I'm Spider-Man, and I'm scared to drive," Miles says bitterly.

"Because being in the air is safer for you," Peter says knowingly. "You're used to utter control."

"Exactly! But my dad's not going to get it. He's a very 'toss you into water to teach you how to swim' type of guy," Miles explains.

Peter shifts Mayday to his other arm, patiently letting her swing from it, with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Would it make you feel better to practice here, slowly and with no one around? That way, you can be a little more used to being behind the wheel before you start with your dad," Peter offers.

Mike's thinks about it. Part of his anxiety is the social aspect of it. The people around him will know he's learning by the unsteadiness of his driving. What if they judge him? What if they sit in their cars and laugh and honk at him? The thought of no one else being around soothes the anxiety in his chest a little bit.

"That might be good," Miles admits, and Peter grins.

"There's a mostly-empty parking garage on the ground floor here. It rarely gets used because most people are from other dimensions and just use their gizmo to get here. But Miguel has a car here, and I need a babysitter for this little monster if we're going to drive," Peter tells him, giving his daughter a fond look.

Miles looks suddenly doubtful, panic aching in his chest. "I don't want to crash Miguel's car!"

Peter actually has the audacity to laugh. "You're not going to crash Miguel's car. Promise. He'll be totally fine with it. C'mon, let's go to his lair." Peter tosses Mayday up in the air. "What do you think, May May? Want to spend some time with Uncle Miggy?" Mayday squeals delightedly.

They make their way to Miguel's office, and Miles looks at the way Mayday sits in Peter's arms, head resting on his shoulder in a rare quiet moment. There's something about it that makes an ache bloom in his lungs, like someone has pressed their thumb into a bruise. Miles feels his eyes start to water for some inexplicable reason, and he determinedly doesn't think about how it's because he longs to be that small again, for his parents to pick him up and keep him safe.

Miles tilts his head down and discreetly swipes at his eyes.

"Miles, buddy. You good?" Peter asks, looking concerned.

Miles takes in a deep calming breath before straightening his shoulders and looking up at him with a forced smile.

"Yeah, just allergies."

Peter gives him a look that says he doesn't believe that bullshit at all, but he looks at Miles for a moment before deciding not to press it. Miles is so relieved, and he knows it shows on his face.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and when they get to Miguel's office, Miles wavers, unsure if he's welcome. While Miguel and Miles had tentatively made their amends, Miles thinks there's always going to be a part of him that demands caution around the man. Peter, however, has no such compunctions, and walks in confidently. To Miles' relief, Miguel's platform is already grounded, so he doesn't have to wait awkwardly for several moments.

"Hey, Miguel!" Peter calls casually. "I brought you a gift!"

"No," Miguel says, without even turning around. Upon hearing Miguel's voice, Mayday lifts her head up, immediately squirming out of Peter's grip. He lets her down and she crawls swiftly over to Miguel, not even hesitating before climbing up his legs. "Peter. Come get your spawn," Miguel orders, finally looking at him.

"Don't be mean!" Peter scolds. Mayday perches on Miguel's shoulders, looking very proud of herself, and Miguel sighs. "She's very excited to be babysat by you."

"Babysi—Peter, I'm not—"

"Of course you are!" Peter says cheerfully. "Miles and I are going to do some driving lessons." He claps an arm on Miles' bad, and all at once, Miguel's gaze snaps to him. Mike's nearly cringes at the scrutiny.

"Driving lessons," Miguel repeats flatly. He looks at Peter again. "You're teaching him to drive?" he asks incredulously.

"Jeez, way to kick a man down. I'm a good driver," he says defensively.

"Who's car are you using?" Miguel asks suspiciously. 

"Yours!"

"No."

"Pleeeeease?"

"Remind me who the toddler here is again?" Miguel quips.

"Miguel."

"Peter."

For a second, they stare at each other in silence, and Miles feels like he should not be here.

"Uh, I can just, like, go? I definitely don't need to learn to drive. My dad's got it covered."

Both pairs of eyes turn to him, and this time, Miles does cringe a bit.

"He can use my car," Miguel says slowly.

"Great!" Peter says enthusiastically.

"But you're not teaching him in it," Miguel finishes.

"What?"

Miles feels a creeping dread crawl up his spine.

"I'll teach him."

The dread settles somewhere in his chest. "Oh, wow, um. You really don't need to do that, haha. I don't even want to learn, really. Peter just sort of roped me into this."

Miguel gives him an assessing look. "You need to learn, and it's no good to be nervous behind the wheel. We won't do anything crazy, just get you used to the feeling."

"Wow. That's, like, weirdly nice of you. But unnecessary!" Miles assures.

Miguel raises an eyebrow before gathering his keys off his desk while Mayday tugs at his hair. "Peter, take your demon back."

"Wait a second, I'm the mentor here! He can't have two mentors!" Peter complains.

"I'll get Jess on the case and make it three," Miguel says.

"Did you just make a joke?" Peter turns to Miles. "Did he just make a joke?"

Miles shrugs, determinedly staying neutral. Miguel ignores him and gently pulls Mayday off him and deposits her into Peter's arms. Miles gets that funny feeling in his chest again at seeing such tenderness. These are men that could snap necks in the blink of an eye, and yet they are so, so gentle with Mayday.

"Morales," Miguel barks, gesturing towards the door. "Let's go."

They leave Peter and Mayday in the office, and Miles wonders if Peter plans on just making his own space there. He's there harassing Miguel often enough.

Miguel and Miles walk towards the garage in awkward silence. There are so many unsaid things between them that it feels impossible to talk around them, stifling as they are. But Miles is too focused on the crackling panic in his veins to care too much, because he barely wanted to do this with Peter, much less with Miguel.

When they arrive to the garage, there are a total of two cars there. Miguel heads towards an all-black SUV. Out of habit, Miles makes his way to the passenger side before Miguel gives him a pointed look and nods his head to the driver's side.

Miles gulps and makes his way to the other side, sitting uncomfortably in the seat, muscles tense.

"First," Miguel starts, "Go ahead and adjust your sit so you can sit comfortably. You want to make sure you can see everything with ease. Check your mirrors, adjust that as necessary. Seatbelt on." 

Miles takes a deep breath and does as he says. Miguel is surprisingly patient with him as he fiddles with the buttons and switches. When Miles is all settled, he runs through the settings.

"This is your gear stick. To switch gears, you'll have to press your brake at the same time," Miguel explains. "Today, we'll just see what things do and get a feel for being behind a wheel. Precision will come in time."

Miles hands feel like they're buzzing, starts to feel like there are ants crawling up his body. Miguel instructs him to put the key in and turn, and Miles drops them. When he picks them up again, his hands are sweaty with nerves, and he hates himself so fucking much. Why can't he just be normal?

He feels Miguel's eyes on him, narrowed and scrutinizing. He tries to ignore it, tries so hard to be normal. Tries to take deep breathes, but he feels like the walls of the car are imploding, constricting around him.

He fights for his breaths, clasps the wheel tightly, and everything feels so out of control. Why does it feel out of control? Why does something so simple scare him? How can millions of people drive and yet he's the one scared of it? Why can't—

"Miles."

The voice cuts through his buzz of thoughts and Miles gasps back into reality. 

"Hey, you're okay. You're fine, you're safe here," Miguel says soothingly. He reaches over and calmly turns the key, turning the car off.

Miles sort of wants to cry. But he doesn't want to cry in front of Miguel and look even weaker. He doesn't want to know what Miguel thinks of him.

"I'm sorry," Miles gets out. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" Miguel asks him.

"For—for being like," Miles gestures helplessly. "For freaking out and we barely even turned the car on."

For a second, Miguel is silent and Miles fills the silence with his own assumptions that Miguel thinks he's being stupid. His face burns with shame.

Finally, Miguel speaks. "I didn't get my license until I was twenty-two," he tells Miles.

Miles' head shoots up to look at him. Miguel isn't one for self-disclosure, so Miles can't help his surprise.

"You're not the only one who's ever struggled with driving, Miles. And you won't be the last," Miguel says simply. "Being in the air is much easier, isn't it?" Miles nods shakily. "We can go slow. We don't have the move. We can just sit here while you get used to being in the driver's seat. We can do it as many times as you need."

"I'm sorry," Miles says again. "I didn't—I don't know why I'm like this. It's like I get behind a wheel and my spidey-sense spikes to one hundred."

Miguel nods. "Your body sometimes like to convince you that things are wrong when they're not. You'll learn when and when not to trust it over time."

"This sucks," Miles says.

"It does. And you'll overcome it, just like you have everything else. You've fought cross-dimensional villains. You can do this, too."

Miles is quiet at that, somewhere between shame and amazement at where the conversation has turned. Miguel is being almost gentle with Miles. It is such a contrast from their first meeting that Miles can't believe it's the same person, that they are sitting in a car in companionable silence, Miguel with an unmatched patience. Miles is grateful, suddenly, that he had this meltdown with Miguel and not in front of his dad. He wouldn't be able to handle his dad's disappointment. Better to have gotten it out of him system, with someone who gets it.

"Can we just—can we just sit here for a bit?" Miles says quietly.

"Of course we can," Miguel says easily.

And for some reason, Miles feels the ache from earlier, from watching Miguel's tenderness with Mayday, start to ease.

He's not sure how long they sit there, enjoying the other's presence, before Miles feels a surge of motivation. He sticks the key back in and turns on the car, taking it out of park.

Ever so slowly, with Miguel's quiet murmuring of advice beside him, Miles drives.

Chapter 2

Notes:

TW: depression

stay safe y'all love u

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

These are the days he never talks about:

The ones where his dorm room is utterly still, coffin-like, him stuck inside, not quite breathing in the stale air. There is a dead impossible-to-kill succulent sitting on his windowsill, and food wrappings in his bed from where he couldn't get the energy to get up and throw them away, no matter how hard he tried. He is glued to his be like a beetle in amber.

 

These are the days he never talks about. He never talks about the pressing weight on his chest that never eases, he never talks about the cement rolling through his veins. How hard it is to get up and shower, how sometimes the only thing he has to look forward to is his next meal—and even then, he knows he won't be able to clean up afterward. And the relief is always, always temporary.

 

His roommate tries, in his own awkward way, to say something, but Miles pulls the covers over his head and turns the other way. He forces himself into sleep not longer after, and tries not to think about how every other Spider-Man gets back up instead of rotting in bed. He will get up, he tells himself. Just.... later. He is busy being in the belly of depression, Jonah to whale.

 

He does not talk about these days. He cannot talk about these days. Miles is not supposed to have these days and neither is Spider-Man.

 

So when he gets a call from HQ calling him in for a mission, Miles cuts the call off instead of answering. While his sense of responsibility would normally kick him into gear, it turns to guilt instead, dropping like stone into his gut. Miguel can find another Spider-Man to clean up some other mess in another universe. He immediately hates himself for thinking that.

 

But God, he is so tired. He is so bone-tired, he feels it in his very marrow. He wonders what it would take to feel rejuvenated again. He thinks about his friends, his family, swinging through the city at sunset. He feels nothing, and he hates himself for that, too. Shouldn't his family make him happy? Shouldn't his friends? Shouldn't the fact that he, of all the people in his dimension, gets to be Spider-Man be enough?

 

Miles despises these moments. He despises the days like this that inevitably turn into weeks. He feels like a new, weaker version of himself, some pitiful thing next to his usual humorous, often cocky, self. He likes who is he when he's not like this.

 

A noise startles Miles out of his miserable thoughts and he lethargically turns back over, peeking from out of the covers to see if Ganke has returned from class. Surely it hasn't already been over an hour?

 

Instead, Miles startles to find Hobie sitting in his desk chair, swiveling from side to side with a nonchalant air Miles could only dream of achieving.

 

"Hobie?" Miles winces at the way his voice croaks with disuse. He can't remember the last time he properly talked to someone. He doesn't even want to look at his phone and see the missed calls from his parents.

 

"Playin' hooky, mate?" Hobie asks. "Shoulda told me!"

 

Miles hesitates. He doesn't want to lie but he doesn't really want to tell the truth either. He settles for a miserable medium.

 

"Don't feel good," he says after a moment. Hobie tilts his head and studies him for a long moment. Miles watches his friend look around, eyes landing on the dead succulent, his messy half of the room, breath taking in stale air. It's so embarrassing that Miles wants to scream at Hobie to leave so he won't have to see Miles like this.

 

Not for the first time, Miles wonders why he can't just be normal.

 

"Yeah," Hobie says gently after a long moment. "I reckon you don't."

 

Miles feels all that roiling sadness start to rise in his stomach and the urge to tell Hobie everything is overwhelming, but he can't, he can't, so he swallows it but it forces it's way behind his eyes and then he's crying and crying and crying, and he can't stop and this doesn't usually happen! He rarely cries when he's like this, but the thought of relief, the thought of letting himself share the weight of his sadness with someone else seems so, so nice but he just can't.

 

He wants to go to sleep.

 

Without missing a beat, Hobie takes his mask off and makes his way up to Miles' bed, sitting by his head and gently lifting it into his lap.

 

"What do you think would help, love?" Hobie asks quietly, kindly not drawing any extra attention to Miles' tears.

 

Miles feels like he's choking. "I don't—I don't know," he gasps, breaths hitching in his chest. He can't seem to draw in air around his sadness, like there's no room left for air in his lungs. He turns and pressed his face into Hobie's thigh, feeling childlike in his pain.

 

"Shhh, you're alright," Hobie soothes. "No good forcin' yourself to answer if you can't."

 

"I just want a break," Miles admits, voice cracking.

 

Hobie hums, gently stroking Miles' hair. "What would that look like? If you could create it yourself, what would that break look like?"

 

Miles can't answer, so the child inside him answers for him. "I just want—I want to be somewhere dark and safe and quiet. It's never quiet. Even when I'm asleep it's—it's so loud. I just want a break. No thoughts, no feelings—just quiet. I think that would be very nice."

 

For a long moment, there is only silence. Miles starts to panic, starts to think that maybe he's answered wrong, and god, he should have known there could be a wrong answer. But Hobie's hand is still gentle on his head, and Miles still leans into it.

 

"Miles," Hobie says, and his voice sounds more serious than Miles has ever heard it. He tenses, but Hobie's hand remains steady. "If I left you alone right now, would you be safe?"

 

It takes a moment for Miles to realize what he's asking before he shoots up, nearly knocking his head on the ceiling. 

 

"Yes! God, yes, I'd be fine, of course I'd be fine." Miles can feel that his eyes are wide, panicked. Hobie, however, looks calm and unfazed in the face of the conversation topic and Miles' skittishness. 

 

"Okay," Hobie says simply. "I trust you. But if that changes, you can always find me." He meets Miles' eyes with a steady stare. "Always."

 

Miles nods, collecting tears in his throat. He kind of wants to throw up. What is wrong with him?

 

"In any case," Hobie tells him, "I'm not leaving you now anyway." He easily guides Miles back down to his lap, affection easy and so, so comforting. That kicking, snarling thing inside him that earlier wanted to get Hobie out is so relieved, soothed to know he's staying. That he doesn't have to endure these moments alone.

 

These are the days he never talks about. So he doesn't. He lets Hobie stroke his hair and he cries a little and finds his own pocket of comfort in his little corner of the dorm room.

 

And it's not all fixed but, just for a little bit, it is quiet.

Notes:

sorry this chapter is so SHORT, i'm on vacation and randomly writing bits in the notes app on my phone. this one wanted to be short and i had no control over it lol

this conversation is basically verbatim one i had with my therapist. she really wanted to send me to a hospital that day, but she kindly just sat with me in her office for an hour and it was good. anyway, enough trauma dumping.

also re: last chapter. just found out i'm getting a car and i cried bc i'm scared LOL. anyway pls come talk to me on tumblr @tonystarkstan, i have a 5 hour ride home coming up

Notes:

Listen, don't judge me but I'm 23 and have had a fear of driving for forever (with no associated trauma), I'm just obnoxious. The first time I got behind the wheel, I was panicking so hard. My friend's been teaching me and she gives me time to just drive around parking lots with no goal other than getting a feel for the car. She is an angel.

Anyway, I hope this resonates with SOMEONE and I hope you guys like the fic.

As always, please come chat with me on tumblr @tonystarkstan. Ironically, I'm on a five hour drive and our tire totally busted.