Work Text:
It was quiet. Everything was quiet.
It was two in the morning on a Wednesday night when Miles Morales showed up at your family's laundromat. You would've killed him for showing up at such a god-forbidden hour, had he not been covered in scratches and blood and bruises.
Not his blood. His words.
It was common knowledge that Miles Morales often got strung up in some shady businesses. You didn't know if it was drugs or gangs or whatever big corporate shit, but you knew he had stuff going on. Most kids at school tried not to get into trouble with him, and that meant avoiding him in the hallways, leaving him to sit by himself at lunch, and overall not talking to him.
That wasn't to say that you were close to Miles in any ways. You knew each other growing up, but you weren't close friends or anything. He was actually closer to your dad, who ran the laundromat. You just happened to still be awake to open the door for him.
"What the fuck happened to you?"
In hindsight, maybe that wasn't the best thing to say to someone who looked like they just got roughed up, or just roughed someone else up, but in your defense, you don't have any filter. It was a little funny to see that look on his face, though.
Miles Morales was silent for a few moments. Then he deadpanned, "Y'all still open?"
You couldn't help the scowl on your face, pointing at the 'Closed' sign on the front door, "Sorry, man, open from seven to twelve only."
"Then why'd you open the door?"
"'Cause you won't stop bangin' on it!"
"..."
"..."
"Yo dad home?"
"Yeah," You sighed. "He's dead asleep, though. Got too much to drink."
"..."
"..."
"I can't come home like this!" Miles argued, "My mama's gonna kill me!"
"It's a miracle your mama hasn't found out!" You whisper-screamed, glancing back at the door to the back, where your parents' room was.
But the sight of Miles Morales like that was pitiful. Sure, he was probably a thug who beat up people for drugs and money, but he was still your classmate. Hell, he was even your lab partner at some points. He was your age. How would you feel if you got caught up in some nasty ass work that left you bloodied up nearly every damn night?
You sighed as you considered the options. Your dad would've let him in without a thought.
"Fine, just-" You ran your palm down your face. Thank God you accidentally had one too many energy drinks and now couldn't sleep. You opened the door wider for him, and he slipped right in, almost like he was getting scared of getting caught. "Take off your-"
His bloody Jordans were off before you even finished the sentence, and you felt a strong urge to scrub those things clean.
Miles Morales immediately began peeling off his clothes, layer by layer. First was his puffer jacket, which was clean enough for him to just set aside. Then, it was the real mess. His lilac hoodie, his Adidas striped sweats, his white tank, even down to his socks—There wasn't anything that wasn't splattered with blood. The sight made you cringe.
He was quiet. His hands moved quickly to shove the items into the big sink, switching the tab on and then getting to work scrubbing the blood out of them. It almost felt unreal, watching your quiet and reserved classmate clean blood off of his clothes. You felt useless standing there.
You hoisted yourself onto one of the washing machines, watching him. You didn't know what to say, or whether you should even say anything. Surely, nothing you say would make him feel better about the situation.
Fifteen minutes went by, and Miles had finished wrenching off the last piece of clothing in the sink. He then hauled everything over to the machine where you were perched on top of, before reaching into one of the cabinets and pulling out our bottle of detergent—That one costed extra money. He did everything so efficiently, like you were watching a fast-forwarded video, it was almost satisfying. It was like he'd done this a thousand times before.
"Do you do this often?" You couldn't help your curiosity. "Coming here dead at night? Does my dad..."
"Yes, yes, and..." He hesitated, "Yeah..."
You weren't surprised to hear that. Your dad was an immigrant, he traveled the Pacific Ocean on a tiny boat and traveled more miles just to get to NYC, surely he had seen a lot worse. He was also the type to take in people if they were in need. No wonder Miles came here first thing after a fight.
You didn't know why it hit you so late, but it did. You snapped out of my trance and suddenly, all you saw was Miles's smooth, brown skin. His toned back, his strong arms, his shoulder blades, they were so very bare and so... nice looking. You wondered if he was cold.
"You need extra clothes?" Miles perked up at your question, and you cocked your head towards the door to the back. "I might have some clothes that might fit you..."
Clothes from your ex-boyfriend, but he didn't need to know that.
"Yeah," He looked up at you once he finished starting the machine, "If you don't mind."
"Ion mind," You said in a sing-song voice, before leaping off of the machine, nudging Miles to a side while you made your way towards your room. You rummaged through your dresser, looking for that one outfit that belonged to your ex before you stole them while you were dating and decided that you couldn't be bothered with giving it back to him when you two broke up. You let out a sigh of relief when you found them. It wasn't anything much, just a pair of red basketball shorts that were way too big on you and a white tee that was also way too big.
When you came back out to the storefront, Miles was sitting where you sat before you went inside. His shoulders were slumped, and he held his head in his hands, his twin braids brushing his collarbones. You took this as a chance to observe him.
There were a few small cuts on him, nothing that you couldn't fix with some disinfectant and bandages. There was a scratch on his left cheekbone that was beginning to bruise, it looked almost gnarly. And there were blood splatters on his face still. You decided that it would be good for you to grab the first-aid kit.
You set the nearly folded clothes next to him, and the first-aid kit on top of it. "Was that all your blood?"
He passed you an unreadable glance.
"Nah."
That was all you needed to know. You passed him a wet towel, which he used to begin wiping his face off, examining it after every wipe.
There was something so calm and comforting about it all, which was honestly ironic. Any normal person would freak out at the sight of someone all battered up and bloody, but when you lived in a city that was infested with crimes and dangers, you grew used to it.
Miles was quiet, utterly docile when you began to clean his wounds up. They were minor, nothing too serious, so you got through them quickly. He didn't hiss nor wince whenever you pressed the disinfectant-soaked cotton into his cuts, which made you a little weirded out. What kind of a teenage boy had that kind of pain tolerance?
You were curious about what kind of work he did, but you didn't ask. You didn't dare to.
"You ain't scared of me?" He asked, emotionless and monotone.
"I ain't scared of nobody," You finished up the last few cuts, before turning to look at him. His face. The nasty bruise forming on his cheekbone that was dangerously close to his eye. His eyes. You hadn't noticed that they were such a nice hazel color before.
The two of you fell silent again. You didn't mind it. This kind of tranquility was hard to find.
"You, uh..." You began, suddenly a little embarrassed to start a conversation. "You comin' to school tomorrow?"
Miles's eyes darted around all over the place when you placed a bag of frozen peas on his cheek. "Ion know... haven't done any of my homework."
You smirked, "Miss Morales ain't gonna be happy, Miles."
"I know, I know, just-"
"I'm just messin' with ya," You laughed a little, even though you were a bit disappointed on the inside. Where did Miles go when he wasn't at school anyway? His mom never knew, so he probably lied and wrote up his own absence excuses all those times. "What are you gonna do if you flunk your classes, man? You ain't even at school half the time."
Miles frowned, his response was nothing more than a shrug.
"Why do you care?" He mumbled.
"Yeah, why do I care?" You repeated, dropping everything back into the first-aid box and closing it back up. You could barely contain the snort that came out when you saw the wide-eyed look on his face, "I should be whooping your ass for coming here so late, dripping blood all over my dad's business, but instead, I'm doing you my dad's favor and I'm treating your injuries!"
The way Miles's face scrunched up and his bottom lip jutted out slightly were adorable.
You grinned, "Say 'thank you', Morales.'
His pout grew even bigger, he looked away and scowled, "Thanks, Ma."
And you took note of that. Ma. That was new.
"You're welcome, Morales."
-
When Miles finished getting properly cleaned up, it was nearing three o'clock. Fatigue finally seemed to start hitting him, while you were still wide awake from the energy drinks.
He was slumped over in one of the chairs near the front door, legs stretched out and head faced up towards the ceiling. You couldn't tell what was plaguing his mind, and you couldn't bring yourself to ask. All you knew was that he was fiddling with a switchblade in his hands, and would occasionally let out a loud sigh.
Meanwhile, you got to scrubbing his Jordans. He insisted that you didn't, but you were one stubborn ass bitch and couldn't handle seeing a pair of J's so dirty.
"You and your dad are the same person."
"Hah?" You didn't know whether to take offense in that statement.
Miles sat up a little straighter, but his face remained the same with that annoyingly nonchalant look. "You and yer dad. Same person. Different formats."
"Honestly," You shrugged, smoothing your thumb over the now-clean material of his shoes. "I get that a lot. Ion see it, but all my aunties and uncles say it. Hell, even my mom say it, too—'You're stubborn just like your father!'"
"Heh," The sound of Miles's chuckle shook you to your core. "'Least you got a dad."
Oh. You completely forgot about that.
You still remember when it happened, hearing it from your mom, who heard the news on a phone call, probably from Miss Morales. You still remember the way she clamped her palm over her mouth and turned to you with tears in her eyes. You were barely six when your family attended his funeral, and you were barely in elementary school when you watched Miles stand with his mom near his father's casket.
You didn't know Mr., or rather, Captain Morales well. You weren't that close. It was mostly your parents and his that were better acquainted. All you knew was that, after his dad died, Miles became closed off and pretty much an entirely different person.
"...Sorry," was all you could say.
"Don't be."
Miles treaded toward you lazily, his bare feet dragging on the floor and his braids shaking as he moved. He pulled the chair with him, before setting down near the sink where you stood. He sat there, silently watching as you moved onto clean his other shoe.
"By the way," You began, suddenly a little self-conscious that he was watching you work. "How's your mom doin'?"
You could feel his gaze shift onto you. You avoid eye contact altogether. "She's... doing well. Been taking more shifts at the hospital. Barely see 'er anymore."
"Why's that?" You turned to him, finally. "Surely both of you could make some time?"
He fell quiet, and when you looked at him, he wasn't staring at you anymore. Instead, he had his chin resting on his palm, facing the window. It was still dark out. You were starting to get scared that you had treaded upon a sensitive topic, then he spoke up.
"Stuff. Stuff you wouldn't get."
You reached for a towel and dried off his shoes, "Does my dad know the details?"
Miles put away his switchblade, "...Yeah."
Of course he did. Between him being in a gang at one point in his life and him being acquainted with the Morales, you would be surprised if he didn't turn out to be involved in their business as well, one way or another. He never talked to you about it, maybe because it was dangerous shit and he didn't want you around it. But if that was the case, why was Miles Morales, a kid your age, a not-even-fully-grown teenager, so active in that aspect?
"Y'know," For some reason, you found it funny. "Kids at school always say that you're involved in some drug ring, but the more I'm talking to you right now, the less I think that's true."
You had a feeling he was in something even more dangerous.
That drew a chuckle from him, "Me? Drugs? Pfttt."
"What? You're really tellin' me you ain't ever hit a blunt?" You smiled as well, almost laughing in suprise when Miles shook his head. "Damn, really?"
"My mama would kill me if I did," He seemed to be holding in a laugh.
"Aye, that's good, though." You smirked, holding his shoes up to admire your own work. They were spotless. "I like guys who don't do substances."
Miles snorted.
"Weren't you the one chuggin' bottles at Marco's house party last month?"
Your mouth dropped, "You weren't even there! Who told you???"
That wasn't the proudest moment of your life, Marco's house party. It was a big one that Marco threw himself for his own birthday. He was one of the richer kids of the neighborhood, and you were dragged along with your friends. Otherwise, you definitely wouldn't have come. A few hours into the party, your friend ditched you to make out with someone else, so you turned to drinking your face off to cope with your extreme social awkwardness.
It was only... five Jell-O shots and, uh, three bottles of something you couldn't remember. But it wiped your memories of that night clean, and you woke up the next morning in your friend's bed, with your dad standing there with his arms crossed, furious. You got grounded for two months after that. You were still grounded as you stood there talking to Miles.
Although, the way he cackled when you swatted his Jordan at him was wonderful. You hadn't heard him crack up so genuinely in so long.
"Hey! The entire school knew the next day!" Miles stood up, taking the shoes from your hands. When had he gotten so tall? "And besides, who said I wasn't at that party?"
You tilted my head. The alcohol got you good that night.
"Right, you were too wasted to remember," He shook his head again, jabbing one of his shoes at you.
Pause.
"Were you the one who told my dad?!"
"I- Me? Pf-What?!" Miles sputtered, he didn't fight back when you snatched the shoe from him and held it up high. He took a step back, skee-daddling around the row of washing machines and driers, opening up the one that was just done drying his clothes. "What gives you the idea?"
"Morales." You crossed your arms, knowing damn well your friends would've never even breathed a word about it to your dad.
"Okay, okay, fine, fine, I... told your dad."
"Morales!"
"What?! What do you want me to say?!" He threw his arms up in the air defensively, his lilac hoodie in one hand. "Your dad was pressin' me! He and Uncle Aaron was gonna kick my ass if I didn't tell!"
Huh? You thought he snitched because the rumors were spreading around school, not because your dad was wrenching him for the info?
"Wait, wait, what?" This was getting nowhere. The only thing getting anywhere was your confusion. "Why would my dad be pressin' you? I came with my friends and ended up at my friend's house! Where did you even come from?"
Miles stared at you, frozen. You knew that look on his face, it was that look that he had whenever he realized he just said something he wasn't supposed to.
"Miles..." You warned.
"Dios mío, you are just like your dad!"
"?????"
He sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the shorts. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, looking at everywhere but you. "Look, Ma." He paused, hesitant. "I- Shit. Ever since you, or we, turned thirteen, your dad asked me to be your... personal bodyguard."
You took a double take.
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Miles sat you down and told you a long story about how immediately after your thirteenth birthday, coincidentally the age you started going outside on your own, your dad asked Miles and his Uncle Aaron to become your guardians, legally or not, figuratively or literally, in case something were to happen to him. Your dad knew that he could trusted those two when it came to fighting against crimes and protecting certain individuals and such, he just... decided to never tell you.
You knew there were still a lot of details that Miles was leaving out on purpose, probably to prevent you from being too involved in his shady business. But even with the lacking details that he told you, you were shocked. You were shocked to find out that you dad had told Miles to come to that party, that Miles was the one who found you blacked out at said party, kept you from being assaulted by all the guys there, and that he was also the one who carried you all the way back to your friend's house.
And apparently, he wasn't going to snitch about your drinking your face off even though you were underage. He was going to tell your dad and his uncle that you simply were too tired to come home and stayed over at a friend's place, but his obvious lacking in the lying department made your dad suspicious, and he threatened to take away Miles's allowance if he didn't tell the truth.
"How much is your allowance?" You asked, unamused.
Miles sighed, grabbing your shoulders. "It doesn't matter, I'm sorry I told your dad and got you grounded! I was just tryna look out for both of us!"
"What'd you use your allowance for?"
He glared down at you, then shrugged, "Personal shit."
You looked away, not knowing how to feel about the whole situation. In a way, you guessed that you and Miles were closer than you ever thought you were. But, it was so one-sided. He had been following you behind your back, stalking you doing whatever, for years! How much did he even know about you? Meanwhile, all you knew about him was that his dad died, his mom was a nurse, and that everything else you knew about him were probably lies!
It was frustrating. It felt like a lump that you couldn't chew nor swallow.
It was frustrating to find out that your dad never had any trust in you- No, he never had any trust in the city. But for him to have another kid your age basically follow me around for years and never even think of telling you, it was frustrating that you couldn't figure out why you were mad or who you were mad at.
"Hey,"
You didn't realize that you were zoning out, and you didn't realize that you were holding your breath either. Miles was still standing in front of you, he had changed back into the original outfit he wore when he first came. He had that look on his face that you wanted to wipe right off with a rag. Full of concern, worry, regret. You hated that look.
"You okay?" His voice was softer, and you didn't like that. You didn't like how he was treating you different already.
"I just... I need time to process all this," You chewed your lip, brushing past him to stand next to one of the washing machines. You rest your elbow onto the cold, smooth surface.
"You mad at me?"
You sighed, dropping your forehead onto your hands. Suddenly, his presence felt like it was too much. You wanted him out. Now. "I'm going to sleep."
"Yeah," He was hesitant about something. "I'll just... see myself out."
You didn't look at him.
And you didn't look until he was already out the door. Clock read 4 A.M.
-
You didn't go to school the day after that, because 1. There was no way you'd be able to make it through eight hours of school while running on only two (barely) hours of sleep; 2. You weren't going to run into Miles, even though he said he weren't coming to school; and 3. You had worked up a massive headache and couldn't even get out of bed without having your entire room spin.
It was definitely the effects of energy drinks. You were filled with regret.
Dread filled your body when the sun came up and invited itself into your room, and you felt like vomitting when your dad knocked on your bedroom door. He was a little upset that you weren't getting ready for school, but that quickly turned into worry when he saw your condition. And for the first time since you started school, he let you stay home with nothing more than a few comments on how you should be taking better care of yourself and your body.
He knew something was up. There was no way he didn't, he saw through anybody and everybody like they were made of glass. Hell, Miles probably told him what happened and he felt bad that he had been lying to his own kid.
Or maybe not, your dad was an unpredictable man.
At around twelve in the afternoon, an unknown number texted you.
you doing okay?
im sorry
you didnt deserve to find out like that
You went out of your way not to answer. But you knew it was Miles, it couldn't be anyone else but Miles.
Truthfully, you felt bad. He wasn't the one at fault, he was only doing what your dad asked him to, you shouldn't have directed your anger at him. But now you didn't know how to talk to him. You didn't know if you should pretend it all never happened, and Miles never came to the laundromat that night.
Part of you wanted to apologize to him, but another part of you wished you and him could just both disappear.
At some point, you decided that you couldn't handle being home anymore, so you got up and left. You knew you were still grounded, and wasn't supposed to be outside if you weren't going to school, but you just couldn't anymore. You went out the window through the fire escape, and stayed out until the sun went down.
It wasn't until around dinner time that you realized you hadn't brought your phone with you. Fuck. Fuck, how could you be so stupid?
Not having your phone on you felt like you left the house without putting clothes on. But you also didn't want to come back home just yet.
In hindsight, it was an extremely reckless thing for you to do, and by it, you meant everything—Leaving home when you were still grounded, risking another month of grounding, risking your TV privileges, even risking your freedom of going out with your friends; Not bringing your phone, you shivered at the thought of your parents coming into your room, not seeing you and then deciding to blow up you phone, only to not be able to reach you because, surprise! You forgot to bring it.
Never in your life had you wanted to punch a wall so badly.
-
Eight, and you finally began making your way back home. You hadn't gone far, only having about three blocks left until you arrived. You planned and predicted and rehearsed the inevitable lectures your parents were going to give you.
But then you were slapped with the realization that you had put yourself in a life-threatening situation.
Picture this—You live in a sketchy hood area of NYC, in a world where the police department fell apart after its Captain passed away and each and every corners were filled to the brim with dangers— thugs, molestors, et cetera. You were a defenseless teenager, walking down a street where there weren't a single functional street light. And most of the stores had already closed, so you couldn't run inside in case something happened.
You were screwed. So very screwed. You didn't have a single penny on you, nor your phone, nor any self-defense tools. You should've thought twice before leaving the house at all.
And to make matters worse, there was a group of men walking in your direction.
It felt like all of your hairs were standing up on their ends. You froze, unsure whether to turn and walk the opposite direction (they would chase you) or just keep going (which would give you a 50/50 chance of surviving, depending on whether or not they were looking for trouble.)
Please ignore me. Please ignore me. It chanted in you head, so loud that it overpowered the the sound of your heart pounding in your throat. Your senses were on overload, your feet dragging you forward heavily. You didn't want to go, but you didn't think you had any other choice. You held your breath, praying that you don't draw any attention from them.
"Ayo, mami, what you doin' out here all alone?"
Fuck. Shit.
You ignored them, trying to just walk past them and then making a run for it. But there were like five of them, and somehow, they formed a barricade, blocking you from going any further.
"Please, I'm just tryna get home-"
"C'mon, the night is still young!" One of them said.
"Wanna go have some fun?" Another one chimed in, reaching out to grab you but you swatted his hand away. They were closing in on you, fuck, goddammit.
You tried to push your way through the group, but they wouldn't budge. "Just let me go-!"
"C'mon, lil' lady, don't be like that, we just wanna-"
BAM.
"Yo, what the fuck- Oh shit!"
"Shit, it's the Prowler!"
"What about the kid?!"
"Leave it, the fuck!"
Next thing you knew, you were on the ground, and the men were no longer in sight. The five pairs of black Air Forces were now replaced by one pair of Jordans. Purple, black, all too familiar colors. You remembered scrubbing blood off of those colors a day ago, the memory of your thumb smoothing over the leather of those shoes were still clear.
You blinked once, twice, then you looked up at the figure before you. The Prowler.
There wasn't a soul in the area who didn't know who the Prowler was. Hell, the entire city probably knew of his name. He was on the news every other day, either for busting a drug ring, for robbing Kingpin's bank, or for screwing big corporations over. He was like Robin Hood, except that he wasn't above killing people.
You never had the chance to see the Prowler up close until now, and you never realized how uncannily familiar he looked.
Those khaki pants, you remembered seeing them while sorting through the clean clothes at the laundromat once when your dad asked you to. That shirt with the Prowler logo, you didn't recognize. And that jacket. The huge, clawed gauntlets that sat around his forearms, they looked like they could rip someone's head clean off in mere seconds. That mask that glowed purple with the white slits for eyes. It seemed as though your heart was pounding quicker the further up your eyes traveled over his body. You stopped breathing completely when you made eye contact with him. That was when you saw them.
The braids.
His name came out of your mouth in broken vowels, quivering and barely comprehensible. And when he didn't respond, you got onto your knees and started crawling away, unable to hold in the laugh of disbelief.
Your name rolled off his tongue unsurely, though sweetly and full of softness. When you didn't respond to it, he said it again, and again. Each time more urgently. You wanted to tell him to stop, but you couldn't even get your mouth to form the words properly. The more he called out after you, the more your eyes stung, threatening to spill tears.
You heard his footsteps after you, and then you felt his clawed hands around your waist, hoisting you up like you didn't weigh a thing even though you very much did. He held you close to his chest, murmuring something into your ears while you thrashed around, trying to get out of his grip.
"Let go..." You began to sob.
"I'm not gonna," He said, only tightening his arms around you, not faltering even in the slightest when you reached back to yank on one of his braids. "Ma, please, just- Ow, just listen to me for one sec!"
"Fuck that!" You cried, "Fuck you!"
"Mami," He sounded like he was on the verge of pleading, "Mami, please, calm down for one sec. I know you're in shock right now and don't wanna listen to me, but you need to- Please! Please, I only wanna protect you!"
"You're the damn Prowler!" The realization settled in your chest like a sunken stone in a vast lake. Miles Morales was the Prowler. He was the one out there, killing and beating people to a pulp, stealing shit, running from authorities, overall fucking shit up. Didn't matter if he did it for good or bad intentions, he killed people. Miles Morales was a murderer. "You-You're..." You started sobbing.
Your dad knew. Uncle Aaron knew. Your mom probably knew. Did Miss Morales know, too? How come you were the only clueless one?
"Shh... Mami, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you. Ever." He turned you around so that your chest was pressed against his. His strong arms held you firmly in place, as his mask finally retracted from his face.
You didn't know what to feel. You weren't sure if you wanted to feel anything at all.
His voice was soft as he spoke to you, like he was talking to a kid, "Can I take you home, Mami? So you can calm down? Hm?"
You shook your head, biting on your lower lip to hide the way it trembled.
"How 'bout my place?"
Negative.
"Uncle Aaron's?" His eyes were beautiful, glossy, hazel-colored, gentle, kind, patient, all the things you didn't deserve to have from him. "I promise there's no one there but us. Uncle Aaron's out for tonight, it'll just be you and me, like last night?"
You narrowed your eyes, and finally nodded.
-
His uncle's place definitely reflected his style. It wasn't that terrible of a place for an apartment in New York. And just as Miles promised, there were only the two of you. It was quiet, everything was quiet, save for the sound of Miles talking on the phone with your dad, probably to inform him of your whereabouts. He must have been losing his mind.
You felt so drained. It felt like everything that could have gone wrong, all happened at the same time that day. You wondered how you could be so dumb, to make so many bad decisions consecutively.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get back to you later. See ya," Miles threw his phone haphazardly onto the coffee table and crouched down in front of you. There was an unreadable look in his eyes, you couldn't tell if he was pissed or just got the biggest scare of his life.
"Good news," His smile looked forced. "Your dad ain't mad at you, just worried sick."
You simply stared at him.
"You're... still mad at me?"
You shook my head, "You're the Prowler." It still felt weird to say it.
"I am," He tilted his head slightly. "You think I'm a bad guy." Not a question, but a statement. He knew you more than you knew him. He read you like a damn book.
You shifted your gaze onto the floor, "I don't know. I don't... I don't know what to believe anymore, Miles. It's like- It's almost like the guy I thought I knew my whole life turned out to be this... stranger that I-"
"Mami," That came out like a warning, though his hand came to rest on your knee. His thumb rubbed circles onto your skin there. "Mami, I may be the Prowler, but I still am Miles Morales. I still am that guy you knew since you were five." He moved his head, trying to make eye contact with you when you avoided his gaze. "Do I scare you?"
You swallowed the hard lump in your throat, "I don't know... yet."
He fell silent, but his thumb didn't stop tracing your knee.
"Does my dad know? That you're the Prowler?" No more point in hiding.
"...Yeah." He fiddled with the hem of the blanket that covered your other leg, the one he wasn't caressing. "I've been training to be the Prowler since my dad died, and started gettin' out there when I was, Ion know, eleven? But your dad... he didn't find out until a year after that. Me being Prowler was the whole reason why he asked me to look after you. He was skeptical, but he saw that I was doin' it for a reason. A good reason. And that's why he trusts me."
His words felt like rocks in your stomach, each one labeled either 'guilt' or 'I'm in love with you.' You dropped your head into your hands with a groan, "God, I feel like shit."
"Hey now, c'mon," Miles's hands easily covered yours, gently prying your fingers off of your face, one by one. "It's okay, I know it's a lot to take in."
"It's just so funny to me 'cause," You shook your head, trying to look for the right words. "It's like you were the quiet guy who was always somewhere in the background of my life, then suddenly you were right there and everywhere and I thought I figured you out but I didn't and it was all- We knew each other since we were kids and I know nothing about you!"
"Wow, so I'm just a background character?"
"Don't laugh!" You swatted at his head, but he laughed anyway.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Continue, please."
"Like, listen, these are the things I know about you! Your dad- You live with just your mom, you're an only child, your favorite color is lilac, your only other friend is Ganke, and you're the fu-frickin' Prowler. These are all trivial things!"
Lil' Shithead must've found it really funny, as he only started laughing harder. You jabbed a finger in his direction, which he took and held in his hand. "C'mon, baby, you know you know me more than just that."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"What's my middle name?"
"That's literally so easy, Gonzalo!"
"My astrological sign?"
"Your birthday is August 3rd, so Leo. Whatever, these are still trivial!" You argued, gesturing wildly with your other free hand. You purposefully ignored that look of fondness on Miles's face. You didn't like how it gave you weird fluttering sensations. "I wanna know what you know 'bout me."
"You?" His eyes widened.
"Yeah, you been stalking me so, c'mon."
"Wow, this is gonna make me sound like a creep but uh... Your favorite subject is Algebra, your favorite day of the week is Thursday 'cause you get to have fruit cups at lunch, you secretly like one of your friends more than the other, you love cats and you'll stop in the middle of the damn street if you saw one, you're favorite soda is Sprite, your favorite brand is none because you don't believe in brands, the outfit you gave me yesterday belonged to your ex, and I also know you broke up with him because he cheated on you with that chick Jessica."
You fell quiet again. You didn't like how he was spot on with everything that he said.
"I don't like you," That came out a little too bluntly.
The corner of Miles's lips raised into a smirk, "Too bad you're stuck with me."
"No, I'm not."
"Yeah, you are, your dad said so."
"You would never do this if my dad didn't force you to."
"..."
You raised an eyebrow at his silence. He shifted uncomfortably. Oh. Maybe he really was only doing it because your dad asked him to after all.
"Miles?"
"Nah," He looked up at you. "Even if your dad didn't ask me to, I probably still would've ended up going out of my way to protect you." He sighed and turned away. "I- I'm the Prowler, my job is to protect this city and its community. Our community. The people that I love and care about. You're one of those people."
Your head spun, "Huh?"
His brows furrowed. His arms were encasing you now, rubbing slow and gentle circles into the sides of your waist. How could you have miss it? His unnecessary touchiness, his clinginess, his tendency to follow you around at block gatherings, his habit of going to you first whenever your classes required you to partner up. And how could you have missed it on your part? The way you welcomed him into your space, patched him up, cracked jokes with him and teased him as if you didn't go back to being distant after everytime you spoke to each other. What was this goddamn feeling?
You could practically see the gears in his head, deciding between 'go ahead' and 'don't risk your friendship that is already treading on a tightrope.' It seemed that Miles Morales liked to take risks after all, as he rest his head on top of your lap, before taking your hand and placing it onto his face, so that you could feel the heat radiating off of it.
"I have feelings for you."
Your heart pounded so hard that it hurt. "Since when?"
"Since always..."
Goddammit, Morales.
"...And your dad had nothing to do with it."
"I know."
His eyes reminded you off a deer, and you finally realized just how different Miles and the Prowler were. It was like they were two different people, because how could the guy that was sitting on the floor in front of you also be the same guy who lurked in the dark, hunting dangers like a predator?
You closed your eyes and sighed, "You give me heartache."
He looked at you and smirked, "What? You don't like hopeless romantics?"
You couldn't help the small smile that crept to your mouth, "I do."
"Can I kiss you?"
"..."
Fuck it, you were diving head first into this.
"...Yeah, go ahead."