Archive of Our Own

In the dark of night, it always finds him.

The familiar grip of the tendrils cocoons his body, weaving their protective layers of armor. He draws a deep breath, drinking in the raw, energizing power that washes over him in black waves.

They rush forward together, rooftops blurring by as he leaps across them with inhuman speed. The enemies he comes across soon regret it, their screams cutting short as they collide with a living force of nature.

Nothing can stop him now, he thinks with a vicious surge of glee as the cracking of bone and tearing of flesh only makes the feeling of power grow. Nothing can stop them now.

Not even…

Darkness blends with the black of his suit. He can sense his prey close by, feel the thrill of the hunt spark in his veins.

He finds his target before him, already broken and bleeding. The symbiote drinks in the fear and despair in the eyes that stare into his own as his fingers squeeze down on his throat.

He tightens his grip, crushing, crushing, crushing, until—

Snap.

Peter jolts upright with the crash of thunder from outside, heart in his throat. He claps a hand over the quiet, shaky gasp that catches in his throat, glancing over at the messy head of red hair buried in the pillow beside him.

Just a dream. Not real. Not real. He chants it in his head as he kicks his legs over the side of the bed, stumbling blindly for the bathroom.

He spends a good long moment hunched over the sink, listening to the rain patter on the roof and gripping the porcelain as tightly as he dares. Despite the roiling nausea in his stomach, nothing tries to come up, so he eventually turns the tap on and splashes some water on his face.

Cold water. Tiles under my feet. Rain on the roof. He dares to glance up at himself in the mirror, swallowing. He looks about how he feels.

MJ is still thankfully asleep when he quietly pads out of the bathroom. Rather than climb back into bed, he slowly lowers himself to sit in one of the two overstuffed arm chairs facing each other by the window. MJ had brought them from her apartment when she had moved in.

Peter rests his mouth against his knuckles as he leans on the arm rest, staring out the rain-streaked glass.

He had apologized. But that could never be enough. Not after what he’s done.

The rain smacks into the window harder. He draws a quiet breath, running shaky fingers through his hair.

Before he’s really even thinking, he’s getting up and snatching his suit from the back of the chair where he’d tossed it earlier.

He climbs out the window, launching to join the millions of tiny drops falling from the sky. They run down his lenses as he swings out to the city, slipping right off his waterproof suit.

It’s surprisingly quiet. He listens for the breaking of glass or muffled yelps, scans across rooftops and streets with his AR lenses. He manages to bust one drug deal, then it’s back to swinging between buildings on autopilot, breathing the cool night air.

Peter lands on a familiar rooftop, right across from a large neon sign that casts a soft red glow across the street. Slowly, he crouches, leaning back to sit on the building’s edge and letting his feet hang off the side.

He sends a glance at the rooftops surrounding him. Empty. Just as well. Peter looks down into the street below, eyes sliding out of focus. The rain continues on, running down the architecture and his body alike before falling down in unending rivulets toward the street below. Threads of exhaustion tug at the back of his mind, just as persistent as the deluge.

He feels so empty. So drained. If only he had…

He shivers.

Not a moment later, a light tingle runs up the back of his neck. It’s followed by the soft thud of something landing nearby.

Peter straightens. It takes him a second to look up.

Miles crouches on the other end of the roof. He seems poised to keep moving, one arm held out to keep himself balanced. His lenses fix on Peter.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, trying to ignore the dull creak of his voice.

There’s a long moment of silence. Miles shifts his weight.

“You’re out late,” Peter says, ready for him to dive off the roof and disappear back into the night at any second.

One lens tilts up. “Not the only one.”

Peter nods as if to say that’s fair, looking back down to the street. When he glances up again, he expects the younger Spider-Man to be gone. Instead, he finds him sitting on the roof’s edge, looking down at the street too.

“Stop much crime tonight?” Peter asks.

Miles shrugs.

“Me either.” His eyes turn back to the street.

The silence drags on, holding up the weight of something unsaid.

“Pete…Why are you out here?” Miles turns back to him, facing him fully.

Peter opens his mouth—then closes it just as quickly.

“Just wanted some fresh air.”

Miles stares for a beat longer. He turns away.

“Right.”

Something sinks low in Peter’s chest as the younger spider climbs to his feet a moment later. He doesn’t look up from the city below.

“See you around.”

He leaps off the building, webbing around the corner and out of sight.

Beneath his mask, Peter closes his eyes.

Kraven might be gone, but several encampments of his hunters survive him. And they are loyal bordering on zealous, Miles thinks to himself as he slips into one of their bases through a rooftop hatch.

He gets an idea of the layout of the place from the rafters, quietly webbing up two patrolling hunters that manage to wander where the others can’t see or hear them.

After another moment of surveying the lineup of enemies occupying the base, he creeps right above the toughest looking one, preparing to reveal his presence with a bang.

Someone else beats him to it.

There’s a loud crash back in the direction of the rooftop hatch. Immediately, both Miles’ and the hunters’ attention swivel in the direction of the sound.

There’s a muffled yelp, then the sound of a body hitting the floor. In the shadows, something moves. As it draws closer, it morphs into a familiar figure.

Miles’ heart stops. He tries to swallow, but chokes on the concrete dust suddenly gathering on his tongue.

The tendrils writhe in the dark, haloing their host. He can just make out the gleam of those milky lenses, searching, searching—

Spider-Man steps out of the shadows, inky black melting into bright red and blue. Miles blinks hard, forcing his eyes to see reality.

There’s a roar of challenge from one of the hunters below. Half of them charge, the others loading up crossbows and taking aim. Peter springs into action, dodging the projectiles and melee attacks in the same movements.

Miles snaps back to attention, muscles tensing as he prepares to join the fight below. It’s only as he’s leaping down onto the nearest hunter that he notices his camouflage had crept over him while he was distracted.

If Peter’s surprised by his sudden appearance, he doesn’t show it. All Miles receives in way of acknowledgement is a brief nod as they inevitably pass each other in their own paths of chaos. He can’t say he’s exactly surprised, but he finds himself missing the witty banter the two usually exchange to annoy their enemies when they fight side by side.

It’s all going ok until it isn’t. Miles catches the flash of a knife out of the corner of his eye, far too close to the other spider for comfort. The grunt of pain that leaves Peter has him turning to see what happened.

A long gash tears through the fabric over Peter’s bicep. Miles feels a flash of alarm, but Peter just sprays some webbing over it and knocks the weapon from his attacker’s hand as she comes at him again.

Within ten minutes, they’ve cleared the base. Miles rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms for a second before turning toward the multiple monitors making up the base’s main terminal. He rips a copy of it with one of Ganke’s specialized thumb drives. They can use whatever data is on there to figure out other base’s locations.

When he turns around again, he’s surprised to find the other spider still there. Even more so to see that he’s pulled his mask off.

“You good?” he asks slowly.

Peter is examining the cut on his arm. It’s not the only injury he sustained. There’s one on his thigh, and yet another below his ribcage. That one looks deep enough to be bordering on a stab wound.

As Miles continues to stare at him, he notices a tremor run through his hands. The dim overhead light catches a bead of sweat running down his temple.

“I’m fine,” Peter says, not looking up.

Miles stares, feeling the boulder living in his gut shift.

No you’re not.

But the words can’t quite make it onto his tongue. Instead, he says, “We should probably get those looked at.”

“No.” Peter turns, moving back toward the entrance hatch. “I’ll handle it.”

Miles takes a step after him, then hesitates. By the time he’s managed to unfreeze himself, Peter has already disappeared back up through the hatch. He quickly follows, but winds up on an empty rooftop with no retreating figure in sight.

Miles sighs deeply, running a hand across the back of his mask.

How was he ever going to figure out what was going on with Pete if he couldn’t even figure out what was going on with himself?

When he gets home that night, his mom is at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, campaign folder in the other. Miles smiles. He doesn’t know how she does it.

“Hey ma,” he says, setting down the package he’d picked up off the front mat before reaching to pull off his backpack.

“Hola, mijo. ¿Cómo era la escuela?”

“Salió bien. Got that big presentation done.” Miles fights his coat off, annoyed by the zipper sticking. When he looks up, she’s in front of him, reaching to draw him into a tight hug. He returns it without question, holding her back gently. She had been doing this a lot, recently. Hugging him like it might be the last time she could. Miles never said no.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his shoulder.

“I missed you too.” He gives her another little squeeze. “I think whatever you’re cooking might be missing you too, though. That’s a lot of sizzling.”

She swats him, pulling back with a smile. They both ignore the hint of moisture glittering in her eyes.

Miles sets to pulling open the box while she returns to the stove. He finds what he’d expected—two heavy textbooks. Both have a few wrinkled pages and well-loved covers, but he grins as he pulls them out of the box.

His first college textbooks.

“Oh! Let me get your picture,” Rio lights up as she spots him with them. Miles groans, but holds them up with a reluctant smile as she snaps a photo with her phone.

“Ma, I’m gonna be going to college now. You can’t be taking my picture like it’s first grade,” he complains.

“I know. You’re all grown up now.” She turns away, giving the beginnings of the stew another stir. “But you’ll always be my little boy. And I’m proud of you.”

They end up having a nice, quiet dinner. A rarity, given that Miles can never turn his phone off.

“I saw Pete earlier today,” he says to his half-empty bowl. He glances up, and finds his mother’s face carefully blank. “He seems…out of it,” he continues quietly. “Like something’s bothering him. Or distracting him.”

Her grip tightens slightly around her spoon. She takes a slow sip, still not looking at him. “I imagine his recent actions should be more than enough for that to be the case.” The words are ice over the previously warm dinner.

“I don’t mean…that,” Miles makes a few weak jabs at his own stew. He focuses on the earthy red and brown colors, keeping his mind strictly on the conversation, and not wandering away to unpleasant memories seemingly waiting to jump out at him at every turn. “I think he might be, like, sick or something? I don’t know. He runs off every time before I can check on him.”

Rio sets down her spoon. Miles looks up, finding her staring at him with an intensity that makes him want to wilt in his seat.

“You, checking on him...” She slowly shakes her head, eyes shifting away. When she looks at him again, Miles is shocked to see an almost pleading look on her face. “You don’t owe him anything, Mijo. If he wants to avoid you, let him be.”

“He’s my partner in fighting crime. My friend. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

A flash of anger crosses her face. “You’re not the one who hurt him.”

Miles opens his mouth, searching for words. Before he can find any, she lifts a hand.

“I know what you’re going to say. Let’s…just drop this.”

Miles drops his eyes back to his bowl. He suddenly finds his appetite gone.

It wasn’t Peter’s fault. It had never been his fault.

She knew that. So did he.

It couldn’t change how she felt, though.

Peter practically falls in through the window to his old bedroom, catching himself in an awkward roll. He pulls off his mask, trudging across the hall.

Stepping into the shower running on full blast heat isn’t enough to stop the shivers wracking his body. He rubs at his arms, closing his eyes as he turns his face up to the spray to wash away the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. A moment later, and he’s fumbling for the tap as the heat grows oppressive enough to suffocate.

Maybe he just hasn’t eaten enough, he thinks a few minutes later when he nicks himself shaving for the third time. The tiny cuts sting his face as he descends the stairs to the kitchen, moving as quietly as he can. MJ has been sleeping lighter than usual lately.

When he pulls open the fridge, it’s only to stare blankly at the contents for a moment before shutting it again. He’s just…not hungry. Instead, he snatches a glass from the cabinet next to the sink, filling it at the tap.

Patrol hadn’t gone very well today. He had messed up busting a drug deal, been too slow to dodge some of the hits thrown at him. For a while, he had continued on through the city, fully expecting his wounds to mend themselves. But they hadn’t. An hour later, when he was dealing with an armed robbery, they had healed only halfway, trickling blood down onto his suit and the pavement and leaving him lightheaded.

His reaction time wasn’t the only thing slowing down. His healing factor was suffering, too.

Peter knew what the implications were. That he had become far more reliant on the symbiote than he had thought. That he might have to continue to suffer for his sins for a long time until his broken, overly-dependent body could fix itself.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe this was it from now on.

He drains the glass, reaching to refill it. The water bubbles as it rises.

Good, he had thought to himself somewhat hysterically, as he huddled beneath a water silo and put pressure on the gashes with shaking hands. He deserved this, didn’t he? For everything he’d done?

On cue, his brain starts the familiar slideshow: Blood covering the black on his hands. MJ’s terrified eyes. Harry’s disgusted sneer. Miles, fists balled at his sides, facing against him.

The water starts to flow over the brim of the glass.

He can almost hear the insidious whispers from the back of his mind. Every ache in his body seems to double at the memory of them, the sense of incompleteness growing until he can’t push it to the back of his mind any more.

He wants—he needs—

The glass shatters into pieces in the sink. Peter follows it, knees hitting the kitchen floor. He’s barely aware of curling back against the base of the counter, knees pulling up to his chest.

His whole body aches with the craving, at the same time the images seem to intensify across his retinas. One hand comes up to cover his face, nausea creeping hot and fast up his throat.

Fists connecting with flesh. All that terror in his eyes as he drove him back. Weak. Helpless. They were so much stronger. So much better.

Another wave of craving hits him just as he remembers the feeling of bone snapping beneath his fingers. He leans over, and hacks up bile onto the floor.

The overhead lights flicker on above him.

“Peter?”

MJ stands in a robe, loose hair flowing down around her shoulders. She looks angelic, even illuminated by the harsh kitchen lights. He doesn’t deserve her, Peter thinks as he dares to meet her eyes from across the room.

“Peter,” she breathes, hurrying over to his side. “What happened?” She takes one look at the mess he’s made and immediately grabs up a wad of paper towels off the counter, dropping it down to cover it up. The tap shuts off a second later, still pouring water where he’d left it on.

“I kinda…slipped.” The excuse sounds just as pathetic as it is leaving his lips. He pushes himself off the floor, one hand catching the counter.

MJ looks at him from where she’d been staring at the broken glass in the sink. She takes a step closer, one hand drifting up to cup the side of his face. Peter closes his eyes, not quite leaning into the touch, but not backing away, either.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispers, voice as gentle as her touch.

Something dark and ugly growls in the back of his mind. What business does she have asking about what he’s going through? She has no idea—

Peter swallows down the scathing words that want to lash out towards her. Something much worse claws up the back of his throat in their place. A confession, maybe. It lodges itself just behind his tongue, making it difficult to breathe as he opens his eyes to look at her again.

“Nothing. I just—I’m tired, and my hand slipped, and—” he cuts himself off, dangerously close to spilling the truth.

Something in MJ’s face cracks at his hoarse words. She pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around him. Peter practically crumbles into the hug, drawing a shuddering breath as he rests his head on her shoulder.

They stay like that for a long time, her holding him up while he desperately fights to keep himself together.

The next time they meet, it’s Miles that manages to get himself hurt.

Another day, another remnant hunter blind, he thinks to himself in irritation as he crawls just out of sight of the cloaking technology. This one is outdoors in an abandoned construction site. When he peeks inside the shield, he finds that he’s been beaten in finding it first.

Peter is already neck deep in fighting off a small army. There are way more hunters camped out in this base, with a wider variety of weapons, too. Miles catches sight of a few battle axes, spears, and one man wielding what appears to be double whips.

He hesitates for a split second. No one has spotted him, including Peter. He could move on, take down one of the other blinds on his own.

He pushes the thought aside just as quickly, firing off a web to leap into the fray. As much as that small, nervous voice in the back of his mind wants him to turn around, another urges him to push forward. He wants to listen to that one more; the one that remembers the good rather than the bad, and longs for it to be true again.

Miles weeds out the less specialized enemies first, sweeping a few off the side of the building and webbing them to its sides. That leaves the bear-themed axe wielders. Or at least, one of them. Pete is busy dodging around the other one at the other side of the site. He hasn’t seemed to notice Miles’ presence.

The younger spider crouches low, then springs at the axeman. The guy starts to swing it at him, but he slides neatly under, rapid-firing webbing at the weapon. The hunter growls, swinging it back toward him. Miles springs straight upward, landing on his other side. He nails a kick right into the guy’s knee just as he tugs on the webs still attached to the axe. He manages to get it out of his enemy’s hands, going in for the knockout blow with a venom-charged fist. Three more hits, and the guy sprawls on the ground.

Miles stares down at him for a second just to make sure he’s unconscious, panting softly. He glances up for his next enemy when an abrupt shriek comes from his spider-sense. He tries to dodge, but he’s too late.

Double metal cords snap around him, pinning his arms to his sides. Miles yelps as a sharp, burning pain burrows into his skin. For a second he thinks the cords might be charged with unfriendly electricity. Then he feels the strain of metal digging into his skin, and blood trickling onto his suit.

It’s not electricity. The cords—whips, he remembers as he turns to face his sneering attacker—are covered in barbs, all cutting into his skin.

Faced with no other option, Miles tries to pull his arms apart. All he succeeds in doing is making the painful metal points dig in deeper to his flesh. He stops, breath catching. The hunter grins, giving a sharp tug on the wicked weapons. Miles grunts as he’s dragged closer, still trying to find a way to escape without injuring himself further.

He has to be stronger than this, push through the pain and escape. The hunter reaches for a curved knife on his belt, growling something in Russian.

Miles grits his teeth, preparing himself for the small agony of having to tear through the metal cords with his super strength, barbs be damned—when an idea hits him.

His lenses narrow as he summons up every ounce of venom lurking beneath his skin, and sends it directly down the metal cords. The hunter yelps, his whole body giving a violent spasm before he collapses to the floor.

A sigh of relief pushes itself from Miles’ lungs. Idiot, the back of his mind whispers. Why didn’t you think of that in the first place?

He glances around quickly, finding no more hunters lined up for their turn at trying to beat up Spider-Man. Good. At least no one else could take advantage of him while he was all wrapped up like a barbed Christmas present.

Unfortunately, it didn’t change the fact that he still had to get himself unwrapped.

He frowns, trying to think of a way to do this with the least amount of pain. The answer presents itself in the quiet thud of someone landing behind him.

He whirls, his lenses meeting Peter’s wide ones as he catches sight of his predicament.

“Oh, man. What happened?”

“Uh. Got snagged.” Miles gives another small, experimental push against the barbed wire. Yep, still unrelenting and incredibly painful.

“Ok. Let’s just…” Peter’s hands float over the wires where they’re anchored into him. He decides on the very ends, which makes sense given that they’re overlapping onto the rest of the wire. Without warning, he carefully grabs onto a bare section of the wire to avoid stabbing himself, and begins peeling it away from Miles’ skin.

Miles yelps.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter says, intensely focused on detangling him from the whole mess. He has to switch to working on the second cord when it overlaps the first one across his shoulderblades.

Miles takes a slow, deep breath, trying not to focus on how badly it hurts. Peter carefully works his way over onto pulling it away from his left arm, almost done detangling the first wraparound of three.

It’s when he’s prying the tiny, sharp spears from his shoulder and bicep that Miles’ brain decides to start making connections he really doesn’t want it to make.

The pain is different. The sting of a hundred barbs is nothing close to bruises, or broken bones, or—

No.

He takes another breath. The normally comforting pressure of his mask clinging to his face now seems suffocating. He needs to get it together. Needs to breathe, because he feels like he could collapse right here if he can’t get any more air in his lungs. He tries wiggling one arm, but it’s still too tangled up to reach all the way up to his face.

“Hey Pete,” he says, trying to hide the strain in his voice. “Can you take off my mask?”

He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth.

No, no, no. Please. Not again.

“Sure.” Like slow motion, his hand reaches for his face, and Miles is trapped, can’t breathe—

“You don’t deserve that mask.”

His vision blurs over. He feels the edge of his mask being peeled up by gentle fingers, rolling it up to his nose, pulling it off his face.

Miles refuses to close his eyes this time. He has to stay strong, has to be brave.

“…you ok?” Pete’s voice sounds nervous. He can hear that it sounds nervous. It’s not…him. Not the symbiote.

“Yeah,” Miles says.

Then everything goes away for a while.

When he comes to, he’s kneeling, with his upper body being awkwardly held up to prevent him from faceplanting on the dusty concrete floor. His breathing still feels strained, every inhale bringing dozens of small stabs of pain.

Barbed wire, his brain supplies, and he’s suddenly grateful that he’d been spared from falling onto the wicked restraints.

“…iles…Miles?” One of the hands holding him up taps at an unharmed part of his arm.

He gives a weak groan in acknowledgement.

“You with me?”

“Yep,” he manages.

“Ok.” Peter takes a deep breath, which Miles can feel, because apparently his shoulder is what’s keeping his head supported.

Oh.

He pulls back, sitting on his heels. Peter lets go of him gingerly as he balances, blank lenses never leaving his face. Even with his vision wavering, Miles can see a few small tears in one of his gloves from where he must have snagged his hand trying to catch him.

“Sorry,” he breathes, because there’s not much more he can say.

Sorry I freak out around you now, even though that wasn’t actually you and nothing you did was your fault. Sorry I can’t be a better friend and let us move on.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Peter’s voice sounds weak to his ears, but maybe it’s just his dumb brain playing tricks. “Did the pain get to you? I can try to remove them slower.”

“No.” Miles shakes his head. “I’m good. Just…let’s get it over with.”

Peter stares at him a moment longer, then nods. When he reaches for the wires again, it takes him a few seconds to actually grab them, like they might burn him.

Miles tries to turn his brain off, staring resolutely off across the city as each painful hook in his skin is pulled away, sending more small trickles of blood onto his damaged suit. The pain itself is almost enough to distract him from the barely-contained wall of panic looming over him from his hyper awareness of Peter reaching for him each time.

He flinches hard when he pulls a particularly nasty strip away from his stomach. His mentor makes a sympathetic hum low in his throat, giving him a moment to recover before continuing on.

Finally, he pulls away the last of the wiring, casting the bloodied devices aside with contempt. Miles rests his hands on his knees, exhausted. His entire body throbs with pain. At least his healing factor will take care of the hundred or so small wounds across his body.

“Are you ok?” Peter asks from where he’s still kneeling in front of him.

No, his body and mind groan in unison.

“Yeah.”

“Those should heal pretty quickly. Doesn’t change that it hurts like hell.” Peter reaches out for his arm—only to pause as Miles pulls it back.

Shit, he thinks, staring wide-eyed at his mentor. Peter doesn’t say or do anything. Just sits there, hand still frozen midair.

Miles shoves up to his feet as quickly as he can. He should say something, try to explain, because now he’s going to get the wrong idea, going to think it’s Peter that’s the problem here, not Miles—

“Thank you,” he blurts out. He doesn’t wait for a reply before he’s pulling his mask on and jumping off the roof, swinging away as fast as his bloodied limbs can take him.

Peter and MJ celebrate two anniversaries: the first time they ever got together, and the second time, when they got back together. Today is the first one: 7 years to the day Peter finally summoned the courage to confess his feelings. He’d been bleeding profusely, a bit concussed, and collapsed across MJ’s bedroom floor, but none of that had stopped him from grabbing her hand and deliriously asking if she would “Maybe, sometime, consider grabbing a coffee, or something?”

If they ever have kids, he’ll have to come up with a better story, he decides.

They’re out to dinner for the occasion (nothing too fancy, just Mick’s) because they could use some semblance of normalcy in their life. It’s the nicest evening Peter has had in a long time. MJ sits across from him wearing a flowy, deep green blouse that complements her eyes perfectly. She’s smiling as they relive one of their adventures in Symkaria, a gesture he finds himself returning easily.

They had decided to exclude any talk of work—Bugle or spider-related—from tonight’s conversation. So far, it’s been going well. But with so many minefields lying in wait, they eventually stumble upon some anyway.

An old high school story involving Harry has them lapsing into a moment of subdued silence. Peter changes the conversation to a trip they had taken to Koney Island when they were first dating, and it lightens the mood again. At least, for a while.

“Speaking of ESU,” MJ says after they’ve been talking about recent renovations at the school, “Has Miles officially accepted his offer?”

“I…don’t know.” Peter pokes his fork through his rigatoni. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

MJ hums, watching him in that unnervingly observant way. Peter tries not to fidget.

“Anyway, I thought we said no work or crime fighting stuff,” he says, smiling halfheartedly.

“He’s not your friend outside of that?” She says it lightly, but he can feel the weight of the words pressing down on both of them.

Peter says nothing, staring down at his food.

I don’t know anymore.

A warm, gentle hand takes his where it rests on the table. He looks up, meeting the eyes of the woman he loves.

“He said he forgave you,” she points out gently.

“I don’t know if that’s the same.”

“Then talk to him.” She squeezes his hand when he opens his mouth to protest—he doesn’t want to intrude if Miles needs more time, or just plain doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore—but MJ beats him to the punch. “Not about what happened, but what you two normally talk about. See how he responds. Maybe you just need to try easing back into things slowly.”

At Peter’s blank, somewhat baffled stare, she sighs. “I know, this is probably a foreign idea for men. Subtlety isn’t really your thing when you talk to each other. But Miles is a teenager. A teenager who probably has a lot going on right now. And in my experience, sometimes you have to approach them with a little more tact.”

Peter releases a quiet sigh. He squeezes MJ’s hand back, rubbing his thumb across the back of her knuckles.

“I’ll…think about it.” he says. “Thank you.”

She offers him a small smile. “You’re probably not the only one who doesn’t feel certain how to handle this. But one of you has to reach out first.”

They drop the topic after that. It still lingers somewhere in the back of Peter’s mind, though, resurfacing throughout the following days.

“Hey! So what’s been going on with you lately? We haven’t talked about much outside of patrol lately and— no…” Peter shakes his head, webbing around the corner of a building and racing up the next one.

“Hi, Miles. I know it seems like I’ve been avoiding you lately, but it’s really just been— ugh.”

He stops on the very tip of the pointed roof, letting himself tilt off slowly before free-falling to the street below. At the last second, he catches himself with double web-lines, sling-shotting himself back up to continue swinging. He pauses on top of a building facing central park, staring out at the verdant patch in the midst of the city.

“Miles, I really messed up. I can’t get what I did out of my head. I think about it every day, and I just wanted to say…” he stops himself again, eyes dropping to the street below.

“C’mon, Pete. Do what MJ said: keep it simple.” He takes a breath. “Miles, I—”

“Yeah?”

Peter nearly jumps out of his skin, whirling around to find the younger spider behind him.

“Wha— How long have you been standing there?”

“Like, a second? Figured you knew since you were just about to ask me something.”

“Right,” Peter nods a little too vigorously. “You just, uh, surprised me.”

Miles stares at him. He looks over to the left, off the edge of the building. “Anyway… I’m gonna go deal with those hunters that I was heading over to take care of.”

“Oh.” Peter blinks, snapping out of his momentary stupor. He peers in the direction Miles indicated, catching sight of the telltale figures patrolling the rooftop of a rundown building. “Mind if I join?”

“…Ok.” Miles takes off without any further preamble. Peter takes a steadying breath, then follows, letting his friend lead the way as the two head toward their quarry.

This blind feels a little easier than the others. There’s only a few hunters habitating the roof, winding around spots of disrepair in the structure. The Spider-Men don’t bother with stealth, diving down on them like birds of prey. There are actual birds (well, the robotic ones, anyway) circling the base from above, which Miles wordlessly sets his sights on while Peter deals with the human henchmen.

“Who’s still paying you guys to do this stuff? Did Kraven leave you all in his will?” he lets the quip roll off his tongue experimentally. It doesn’t feel as punchy as it used to, but then again, what doesn’t?

The dual-wielding hunter he’s fighting snarls something in Symkarian, not humored by the joke. Peter cartwheels back from the man’s curved blades as they go right for his throat. He manages to web one out of his grip, tossing it over his shoulder and ducking around the stabbing motion the hunter makes with his remaining blade in retaliation.

Peter grits his teeth as the ever-present aches niggling at his limbs suddenly flare brighter. He still isn’t sure why they just do that sometimes, but it’s annoying as all hell. He leaps over the hunter’s head, getting a good hit in as he passes by but barely avoiding both his sword and a crossbow bolt from another hunter somewhere high up behind him. When he manages to catch a glimpse of his other attacker, Miles is knocking him down from his perch on an antenna.

Sword guy recovers from his blow, rushing him again. Peter launches him up in the air and punches him halfway across the rooftop.

The older spider lands lightly, looking around for any more enemies—then lets out a pained grunt as something slams into the side of his head. He staggers to the side, reaching up to blindly catch the mace-like weapon the brute heaves at him again. His vision swims as he stops it from cracking into his ribcage, pressing it back toward its owner. Peter’s lenses widen as the guy manages to press the weapon a few inches closer toward him.

He needs to clear his head faster, needs to—

A pair of black webbed arms wrap around the hunter’s neck. Miles’ head appears behind his, pulling him back and away from Peter as he chokes him out.

Peter blinks away the last of the fuzziness spotting his vision. He switches to pulling on the mace, as the brute tries to swing it back into Miles. The awkward game of tug of war leads the two spider-men to stumble a few steps to the right, onto a collection of tarps spread out in the center of the roof. The hunter between them finally falls unconscious as Miles gives him a shock for good measure. They shove him away as one, watching him sprawl lifelessly on the floor.

Peter looks around. “Is that it—”

Before he can finish his sentence, his spider-sense lights up again. A few paces away, the swordsman he thought he had incapacitated earlier sits up on his elbows, hurling his blade right at them.

Miles reacts faster, shoving him out of the way and firing a venomized web at the hunter. It hits its target just as the floor suddenly drops out from beneath their feet, sending both spiders plummeting into darkness.

The hunter hadn’t been aiming for them. He’d been aiming for a control panel behind them.

The revelation only hits Miles as he stands up from the crouch he’d landed in, looking around at the faint gleam of bars surrounding them in the gloom.

They’ve fallen down a trap door and into the building, landing right inside a cage. A loud clang sounds as a metal top falls into place above their heads, sealing them inside the box.

Peter’s voice mutters something beside him, possibly a curse.

Miles darts to the bars, beginning to search along them. He tries to ignore the feeling of dread creeping up his spine (can’t get away, can’t get away). He can hear Peter doing the same behind him, testing the prison.

There has to be a weak point.

The cage doesn’t bend under super strength. It must be vibranium, or something just as strong. Another one of Kraven’s outlandishly expensive toys.

“Nothing.” Peter’s voice echoes in the dark, frustrated. “They planned this well.”

“Let me see if I can get Ganke to send a drone over here,” Miles says, lifting a hand to his comm. He’s met with a small fizz of static, then silence. Multiple tries yield the same thing.

Peter lifts a hand to his own comm. Both of them try the few people they can trust (Peter even tries Yuri), all to no reply.

“Jamming communications. Great. So we’re in a poorly written Star Trek episode.” Peter’s quip falls flat in the metallic space.

Miles doesn’t look back at him. There has to be a way out. He can’t be trapped in here. He can’t—

No, he tells himself sharply, trying to calm his climbing pulse. Just focus on getting out.

He pushes and pulls at one of the bars with all his might, a few shocks of his venom briefly illuminating the space. He can feel Peter watching on as he tries to escape and fails. Miles shivers as he pulls back from the bars, teeth gritting.

He gives it another go, straining against the metal like his life depends on it. (Maybe it does.)

“Whoa, take it easy,” Peter says as he lets out a strangled grunt, hands almost slipping free from the metal and making him stumble backwards. “I don’t know what these are made of but I don’t think brute force will work.”

Miles pants softly. He stares at the hazy outline of Peter. Logically, he knows it’s just him, but—

He swears he can see them, uncurling around him in the gloom. Glossy and lashing restlessly, about to snap out toward him—

“…can’t get out, Ganke or someone’ll track us down,” Peter says.

When he doesn’t answer, his mentor’s shadow turns away, looking out what Miles has mentally blocked off as his side of their prison. The younger spider watches, every muscle in his body still tensed. But all Peter does is resume his investigation of the cage, inspecting the bars with a more scientific eye. Normally, Miles would probably join him, maybe throw around some theories about what this thing was made of, but he isn’t exactly in a hypothesizing mood right now.

He climbs up onto the ceiling, tapping along it. Maybe there’s a weak point. He slams the side of his fist into the thick slab of metal, curious to see if it’s any different from the bars. It is not.

Miles drops down from the ceiling after several long moments, defeated. He keeps trying the bars for a while after that, squinting out into the barren concrete room beyond to see if there’s any levers or controls he can hit with a web.

Still nothing.

Despite the cool temperature, sweat beads on his forehead, catching in the fabric of his mask. He balls one fist into his suit’s fabric at his right thigh. The bars stand strong and pristine around him, mocking.

Movement out the corner of his eye shows Peter sliding down against one wall to sit down on the floor. One of his hands goes up to his face.

Miles looks away again. Just pretend you’re in here alone.

He swallows, wrapping a hand around one of the bars. His fingers squeeze down of their own volition more than his will, fueled by the rising wave of panic climbing over his head. Miles taps into strength that normally crushes whatever gets in its way, his other hand joining a second later. His heart pounds against its own cage.

Nothing.

Trapped. With the one person he really couldn’t stand to be around.

He’s eventually forced to sit down on his own side of the cage in some pathetic attempt to try to calm down. He won’t stay like this for long but he…needs a minute.

There’s no way Peter doesn’t hear his ridiculously fast heartbeat, or worse, his shallow, shaky inhales. But he gives no indication that he does.

Miles pulls his knees up to his chest, just barely resisting hugging onto them. What’s he playing at? he can’t help but think, eyes locked onto the other silhouette in the dark.

Maybe it’s part of the game, the ugly, broken part of his brain whispers back, caught up in dancing between now and moments in the past. The air in the cage only feels thinner as his mind keeps looping the sudden movements he—or it—could make at any second.

It’s not him.

Miles tugs his mask off, resting his forehead against his knees. Dios, he’s pathetic. He doesn’t need the memories to remind him this time.

“Hey.” Peter’s hoarse voice makes him tense. “You ok over there?”

Miles nods once, face still in his knees. They’ve established that he’s weak already. It’s not like this can do much more harm.

Of course, his reply isn’t exactly convincing. There’s a soft scuff on the metal floor as Peter shuffles a little closer. “Miles?”

Any reply he might make catches in his throat. Miles takes a soft, shuddering breath. He finally finds the strength to peek up—right as Peter lifts a hand toward him.

He can’t help what happens next. He flinches, venom flaring up over him like a protective barrier even as his muscles coil for action.

Peter pulls his hand back, lurching back into his own space.

“S-sorry,” Miles says, deja vu hitting hard from the construction site the other day. The bright blue electricity dancing over his arms and chest flickers out like a dying lightbulb. He squeezes his eyes shut as self-loathing crashes over him. “That wasn’t—I just—”

He trails off, unable to finish the sentence. Peter will know, right? Even if he probably won’t admit it, somewhere deep down, he knows what Miles is. Because the symbiote was pure evil, but it had to feed on something.

Peter’s stock still for a few seconds. Then he slumps, remaining well past the invisible line separating their sides of the prison.

“None of it’s on you,” Miles plows ahead, because apparently he can’t stop now that he’s started. “It’s all me. I just, freak out, about stupid stuff. Something’s just been kinda messed up in my head lately, so—” he has to stop himself, voice teetering on the edge of breaking.

“No. Miles, no. It’s not, you’re not…” Peter’s words trail off, somehow sounding just as lost as he feels.

Silence pushes down on them like an invisible weight.

“I didn’t…” Miles looks down at the floor. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know.” When he glances up, Peter is staring off into the darkness on the other side of the cell. “This is all my fault.”

“What?” Miles’ eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I—”

“I know,” Peter says again, cutting him off gently. “But it is.” He stands slowly, like his body doesn’t want to cooperate. He wraps one hand around a bar, leaning into it. “I’ve just been hoping and praying that things will go back to how they used to be. But they…can’t. And it’s not your fault.”

Miles’ heart sinks. He opens his mouth to reply, but the lump in his throat blocks the thousand words of denial that want to flow forth.

“I,” Peter says, staring down at his hand where it’s still wrapped around the bars, “am the one who’s done everything wrong. I willingly put on that suit. I didn’t take it off when I realized what it was. And then,” he pauses, and Miles sees the muscles in his arm tense as his fingers squeeze tight on the metal. “I didn’t fight it hard enough when it…when I…”

“No,” Miles says, surprising himself with the sudden strength in his voice. “You don’t get to say that.” He shoves up to his own feet. Peter looks back at him, lenses widening slightly.

Miles doesn’t let himself stop. Because although his own head might be screwed up, he’s not about to let his friend keep lying to himself.

“You can’t just blame yourself for everything,” he says, squaring up a little more. “You didn’t know, Pete. You didn’t know what was gonna happen. And that wasn’t…” he hesitates. “That wasn’t you.”

Right?

Peter looks away. In one swift movement, he reaches up, pulling his mask off his face. “I didn’t fight it hard enough,” he hisses, eyes burning with enough anger to make Miles take half a step back. “I let all of it happen. I let it take over, and I let it do all those horrible things—!” he turns, throwing his balled-up mask onto the floor. Its glass lenses stare up at him, accusing.

“But you didn’t want to.”

“No. God, no.” Peter runs a distraught hand through his hair. “I never wanted to hurt any of you. But that doesn’t change the fact that I did.

“What I told you, when I was…when it took over. ‘You don’t deserve that mask.’” Peter turns to look at him, every line of pain etched into his face aging him beyond his years. “I was wrong. Because after everything I did…I’m the one who doesn’t deserve it.”

“That’s not true.” Miles blinks against the moisture that suddenly wants to gather in his eyes. “Pete, I’m still here because of you.”

Peter stares at him incredulously. “I let it hurt you!” he exclaims, voice creeping back up in volume. “That was me, Miles! I can remember every minute of it. I was there, the whole time, in my own body. It was distorting everything, but those were my actions. My choices.” Any last trace of color drains from his face. “I almost killed you.”

“Nah,” Miles says, trying not to remember the feeling of fingers crushing down around his throat. “Stop saying that. You didn’t ‘let it’ do anything. You were the one who stopped it. You stopped yourself.”

Peter’s lips part slightly, brow still furrowed. He turns away, and Miles doesn’t miss the way he swipes the back of one hand under his own eyes.

“I don’t deserve that.” His voice wavers. “I don’t deserve any kind of excuses or—forgiveness.”

“I don’t think you’re the one who gets to decide that,” Miles says quietly.

“‘Guess not.” Peter offers him one of the saddest smiles he’s ever seen, sagging heavily against the bars. His head bows as he fails to rein in his grief.

Miles takes two steps closer. He reaches out, pausing just shy of touching Pete’s shoulder. When his fingertips finally rest on the patch of red there, he can feel the shock of the touch ripple through his body. Peter looking up at him is almost enough to make him pull away, but he persists, eyes not quite meeting the subdued but familiar light behind his friend’s.

“I don’t want things to be like this,” he says softly.

Peter swallows, still deathly pale. “Me either.”

“Let’s…try to move on. Together?”

His mentor sniffles. “I- I’m not sure how.”

“Me either. I guess that’s the part about just trying.”

When he receives a shaky nod, Miles finally lets himself pull his hand back, quiet relief following the movement. He can see Pete almost instinctively reach out to him again, but he doesn’t. The show of respect warms something inside him in place of the reassurance of touch.

“Let’s try to find a way out of here.” He steps back, looking all around the cage again. “Maybe there’s something we mis—hey!”

He darts back to Peter’s side as his attempt to push off from the bars makes him stagger. Miles catches him around the shoulders, lowering the two of them to crouch on the ground.

“Sorry,” Peter says, blinking dazedly. This close, Miles can really make out the dark circles haunting his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.” He maneuvers him to lean back against the bars, shuffling back to a more comfortable distance. “No offense, but you look like crap. Have been for days. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing.’ Didn’t we literally just have a whole conversation about how we’re gonna try to be more open to each other and stuff?”

“Not exactly. And this isn’t…” Peter wipes the back of his hand across his brow, not meeting his eyes. “This isn’t something that you can help with.”

“Then I guess you’ve got nothing to lose telling me,” Miles says sharply, feeling something separate from his own problems flip over in his stomach. He hasn’t seen Pete like this before. He looks…sick.

“I’ve already made this all about me.” Peter winces. “I…haven’t even asked about you. What you’re going through.”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one passing out at the drop of a hat.”

“You did the other day.” Peter worries at the inside of his cheek, watching him intently. “Not at the drop of a hat, I mean, but with the barbed wire… Did I…do something?”

Miles blinks, working to keep his face blank. “That’s not what I’m talking about. We’re talking about you.”

“But I did?”

Despite the discomfort gripping him, he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Trust Pete to always pick the worst hill to die on. If he didn’t know him better, he would think this whole thing is just a distraction to keep from answering his question. Which, it is, but he can see the genuine care in the slight pinch of his eyes and the frown tugging at his lips. This has probably been weighing on him.

“Kind of. Now—”

“Is it just…me?”

Miles’ irritation spikes at being interrupted again, but fades at the look of fear in Peter’s eyes. He opens his mouth, searching for words.

“No,” he says finally. And he believes it.

He just isn’t sure Peter does, judging by the expression on his face.

“Now please just tell me what’s going on before we wither away into skeletons in here.” Miles crosses his arms.

Peter gives a shaky, humorless chuckle. “You’re really persistent, you know that?” When the younger spider says nothing, he shakes his head, brow furrowing as he closes his eyes. “I wasn’t joking when I said I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

“Pete,” Miles starts, half exasperated, half worried, but his friend cuts him off before he can continue.

“I want it back.”

That shuts him up. When Peter dares to crack open his eyes again, Miles is just staring at him, expression unreadable.

“Yeah. It’s really,” he pauses to cough, shivering like the temperature just dropped 10 degrees. “fucked up. I know. But it’s, you know. Just kind of what I get.”

Any surprise at hearing him swear is covered by the numbness consuming Miles. “You…want it back?” he asks slowly.

“My body does.” He looks down at his feet. “That’s all it really takes, isn’t it?”

Miles frowns, eyes betraying his inner turmoil. He tries to keep his voice even as he says, “That doesn’t sound like you, though.”

Peter’s lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue, still curled into a ball against the wall.

“What’s it been doing to you?”

“Slowing me down, mostly.” He rubs an unconscious hand against his chest. “My healing factor hasn’t been the same. That’s why I’m…” he gestures vaguely to himself.

Miles thinks back on recent missions. “You keep getting hurt.”

“Reflexes haven’t been too sharp either.” Peter slowly pushes up to his feet, using the bars for support this time. “It’s fine. I’m managing.”

“Is it getting any better?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t look at Miles, running his hand along the bars again.

Miles doesn’t expect the twist of anger he feels somewhere deep in his chest. Not at Pete, but at this entire situation. Both of them seemingly so fragile and worn out, all by something that had never really been under their control. It isn’t fair.

“I have an idea,” Pete says. Miles looks up to where his friend is still studying the cage. “These are strong, whatever they’re made of. Can’t do much damage to them alone. But together…”

“We could do more damage.” Miles comes over, wrapping his hands around the bar.

“Ready?” Peter asks.

Miles nods.

Together, they pull back. Both tap deeper into their strength as metal begins to groan under the growing pressure, slowly bending in their hands…

The bar pulls free from its bottom fixture with a metallic shriek. Miles reaches for the next, Peter right alongside him.

The second and third bars snap free in a similar manner. The harsh clangs only sound like freedom to Miles as he climbs out after Peter, stopping only to web up the mask left abandoned floor.

He holds it out to him as they pause beneath the trap doors above.

“Spider-Man,” Miles says.

Peter looks to the mask, then to him. He reaches forward tentatively, accepting the proffered fabric and simply holding it in his hands for a moment. His thumb traces the edge of one lens.

Miles pulls on his own mask, looking to him expectantly.

Peter hesitates a beat longer—then offers him the ghost of a smile, pulling it on.

They break through the heavy doors above, taking off across the rooftop together. Miles flips backwards off the building, neatly avoiding his fellow Spider-Man’s webbing as the two swing away from the hunters’ blind together.

They stop on another rooftop not too far away. Peter walks all the way to the edge, gazing out across the city. Miles comes to stand a comfortable distance away from him, enjoying the fresh air.

“I can stay in my own lane for a while. If it would help.”

Miles looks over at the other spider, eyebrows creeping up beneath his mask. Peter’s gaze remains on the city below.

“I know we both said we want to move on from all this. And I’m prepared to do whatever’s going to make it easiest for you.” He turns to Miles, fingers curling into his palms at his sides. “I would understand completely if that means not working together anymore.” There’s little hiding the sadness that touches his voice, shoulders wilting just slightly.

Now it’s Miles’ turn to look away. He watches lines of pedestrians and cars move by below, the city’s own lifeblood.

He doesn’t know what he needs. Or what, if anything, would mend the invisible cracks threaded through his mind.

But he does know what he wants.

“No. Trying to ignore this stuff…it doesn’t work.” He looks up, out across the city. “And I meant what I said back there. About going through this together. Spider-Man ain’t a solo act anymore, Pete. You’re stuck with me.”

It takes a moment for Peter to respond. When he does, his voice is quiet with emotion. “Thank you, Miles,” he says. “For…everything.”

Miles blinks—then nods. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns away, grateful for his mask as he angles himself toward Harlem. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, then takes off, swinging away into the sea of skyscrapers.

“Tomorrow.” Peter nods as he watches him go, lips pressing into a small smile beneath his mask. Only after he disappears does he take off in his own direction, heading toward Queens and the thought of someone waiting for him at home.

All that they’ve said isn’t going to fix things. There’s still sharp, painful pieces living beneath both of their skin. Some might be buried too deep to ever fully reach and mend.

He knows already that the path isn’t going to be easy.

But it’s a start.