Chapter Text
“Spider-Man!” Someone calls out for him, anxious and urgent. It's a common enough occurrence, these days, and Peter instantly slows, searching for the caller.
He spots them after a moment, a dark-skinned teen who's rushing towards him. If Peter were to venture a guess, he'd say the kid is maybe 17, and there's a familiarity to his face. His tingle, well, tingles, faintly, a whisper of I know you.
“Spider-Man!” The kid calls again, slowing down as he approaches where Peter is perched atop a lightpost. “Oh, man, am I glad to see you!”
“Uh, hi,” Peter says. He gives a small wave. “How can I help?”
The kid pauses for a moment, glancing around. The street they’re on isn't too terribly busy, though they have attracted a bit of attention. “Uhhhhh, my name is Miles! I have a, uh- a message from my dad.”
Peter tilts his head, curious. “And who's your dad?”
“Officer Jefferson Davis,” the kid's chest puffs out a little in pride when he says it, and yeah, now Peter can see the resemblance. Though he's a little confused why Officer Davis didn't just contact him himself. “It's confidential, though, so would we be able to go somewhere a little more, uh, private?”
Peter frowns a bit at the odd request, but his spider sense isn't warning him of any danger, so after a moment, he hops down to the street. Miles jumps a bit at the sudden landing, his stance tense and nervous.
“Would you mind if I bring you to a rooftop or something? Probably the best I can do right now.” He doesn’t usually carry people around, at least not unless it’s to get them to the nearest emergency services, but the way the kid's twitching, it seems urgent. “Though if you puke on me, I will not be happy.”
Miles nods quickly, so Peter carefully scoops the kid into his side. The swing is quick and painless, and Miles seems enthused by it, breaking away from his anxiety for a moment to let out a whoop of excitement. They touch down on the roof of a nearby building, one that's not too tall but definitely out of earshot of the other civilians.
Peter gently sets Miles down, and steps away, though not too far, in case the kid is off-balance from the swing. He doesn't seem to be, though, with a wild grin on his face. Peter gives him a moment to settle, and speaks up when the kid seems calm.
“What's the message?” It's a little blunt, sure, but something from a police officer is something that likely needs his immediate attention, especially if they sent their kid to do the delivery. It’s not something he’d think Officer Davis would do, but he might’ve misjudged the man (it wouldn’t be the first time…).
“Message? What mess- oh, right,” Miles flounders for a moment, the anxiety creeping back into his body language. “About that… there isn't one. Not from my dad.” He must be able to read Peter's annoyance even through the mask, because he barrels on. “I just needed to talk to you! It's… you’re the only guy I could think of that could help me.”
“And why is that?” Peter can't help the slightly dry tone to his voice. “Can't you ask your dad?”
“No!” Miles seems almost panicked now, and there's a slight– something. A twinge. A slight note of his tingle, his sense, but nothing overt. It doesn't even feel like danger, just… something. That same note as before, a little clearer. I know you. “There's been changes happening. To me.” Peter frowns at that, brushing aside his tingle for the moment.
“Now that sounds like a conversation with your parents. Or maybe your health teacher.”
“No! That’s not-”
“I know I kinda brand myself as your ‘friendly neighbor’, but I really don’t think this is a conversation you should have with your neighbor.”
“That’s not– just– look!”
And Miles suddenly runs over to the edge of the roof and jumps. Over the side of the building. Peter shoots out a web on pure instinct, his tingle flaring like a wildfire, and Miles dodges, an inhuman curve as he falls, a maneuver that is eerily familiar.
Peter rushes over, faster than a bullet, ready to dive off after the kid, and is thrown entirely by what he sees over the edge.
Miles, clinging to the smooth wall of the building, holding on purely by his fingertips. The tingle quiets back to a murmur, the quiet hum from earlier, and Peter can finally put a finger on why it feels so familiar. I know you.
It’s the same feeling he got when he met the other Peters. Another Spider-Man.
—
“So what are we starting with? Web-swinging? How to fight ten guys at once? Quips?” Miles asks, enthused, from where he’s standing on the roof. He’s bouncing on his feet, shadow boxing towards Peter, wearing an old hoodie and gym shorts from Brooklyn Visions Academy.
“Physics.” Peter deadpans, slipping the old backpack off his shoulder and dropping it heavily in front of him. “Sit down, Rocky, we have homework to do.”
“What?” Miles says, arms dropping and his face scrunching in confusion. “What does that have to do with…” He trails off, as Peter pulls out several notebooks from the bag, the topmost one neatly labeled Pendulums. “Oh. Ohhhhh.”
“To be Spider-Man, you must first learn the science of Spider-Man.” Peter says wisely, before dropping down to sit cross-legged on the roof. “So until you can do these calculations in your sleep, we aren’t going anywhere.”
Miles groans, loudly, before flopping down next to him. He pulls one of the other notebooks towards him, that one about chemistry, and flicks it open.
“Did you put these together yourself?”
Peter nods, digging further in his bag for his other supplies. He's brought pencils, erasers, his old calculator, and other miscellaneous school supplies he had lying around. At the bottom of everything, carefully folded, is something he spent the last few nights making.
He pulls out the mask - a carbon copy of his own, for the most part - and holds it out to Miles.
“Here.” Miles’ eyes bug out comically, so Peter continues. “It's not a full suit, but if you're going to be training, it's probably better to keep your identity under wraps, no?”
“A-are you sure?” Miles asks, hesitantly, as he slowly reaches out to grab the mask. Peter nods, holding it out a little further. He takes it. “Thank you.”
Peter watches as he puts it on, slipping it over his head slowly. It's not a perfect fit, of course, but it's better than a cheap costume and honestly, if it wasn't for the workout gear, it feels a bit like looking in a mirror.
“Lookin’ good, Spider-Man.”
—
“So, what other superheroes have you met?” Miles says conversationally, kicking his legs like a child as they sit on the edge of the roof. “Besides the obvious, I mean.”
Peter thinks for a moment, as he digs the sandwiches he got from Delmar’s out from their paper bag prison, passing over the other sandwich to Miles. The Avengers are the obvious, everyone knows about Spider-Man and his connection to them, so he’s probably talking about the smaller vigilantes that sprinkle New York like glitter.
“You ever heard of the Defenders?” Miles nods. “I haven’t really met them, per se, but I’ve crossed paths with a few of ‘em, once or twice.” Both in and out of suit, though he doubts Matt really remembers him at this point. “Know of a couple mercs, too, though I try not to tangle too close with them.”
“Mercs? As in, mercenaries?” The kid prods, carefully mimicking Peter as he lifts his mask to the bridge of his nose to eat.
“Yeah, Deadpool and his partner, Logan. Not sure if he’s picked out a name yet. I only see them every once in a while though.” He doesn’t like to pry, mostly due to his own previous issues with secret identities, but also because as nice as DP is, Logan kinda scares him. “I wouldn’t really recommend trying to contact them, though, they can be… a lot.”
Miles hums in understanding, and lets the conversation drift. The next few minutes are filled with the sounds of chewing. Something does occur to him, after a while.
“Oh, yeah,” he adds. “I also know a wizard. At least two, actually.”
“What?” Miles whips his head towards him. “Magic is real?!” Peter smiles at that, though it turns a little rueful as he replies.
“All too real, to be honest. If you want my advice? Don't seek it out. There's a lot that can go wrong.” Miles goes quiet at that. He can tell the kid wants to pry, really wants to ask a follow-up question, but he's not. Peter's grateful for that.
—
“How'd you learn to fight?”
It's a simple enough question, one that makes sense even, with what they're doing. They’re at a gym, Miles having finally worn down Peter enough to spar. Peter is, of course, wearing a face mask and beanie, still having not revealed his identity. Still, the question makes him pause. It's got a long answer, and Miles takes a swing at him while he thinks.
“The first time I learned how to throw a punch, I was taught by my-” uncle, he wants to say, because the first person to teach him to punch was Uncle Ben. But his anxiety spikes, suddenly, his tingle flaring with a don’t don't don’t mantra that makes him bite his tongue and pivot. “My dad. I, uh, punched a kid at school once for making fun of my friend, and nearly broke my thumb.”
Miles huffs a laugh, and quickly dodges a kick to his side. He's learning to listen to his sense better. “I'd probably do the same for Ganke, but at least my dad showed me how to punch before I tried.”
Peter's heard mention of Ganke before, a smart kid that Miles met in high school and is thick as thieves with. From the way he describes him, he reminds Peter a lot of Ned, if a little more sarcastic. He'd kinda like to meet him, eventually.
“And anyway,” Miles continues, side-stepping around quickly and attempting his own kick at Peter's side. “I meant like this.” Peter grabs his leg before it can make contact, and twists it, instantly pulling him off balance and knocking him to the ground. “Damn.”
Peter laughs, before leaning over and offering him a hand. He guides him over to the side, where their water bottles are sitting. “Honestly? Lots of googling. Figuring out what kind of fighting style would work best.”
“What'd you land on?” Miles asks, after taking a healthy swig.
“Capoeira, mostly. Plus some other elements thrown in there to spice things up, add in a background of dance and gymnastics, and you get what I affectionately call, the spider dance.”
“You don't call it that.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I just made that up right now.”
“What’s… what'd you say, capo-ra? What is that?” Peter carefully turns away as he drinks his own water, and takes a second to reply.
“Capoeira. It's a Brazilian martial art, if I remember correctly. Not as well-known as like, karate or something like that, but it's a style that is good for fighting when you're outnumbered.” Peter explains, and sets his bottle back down before heading back to the middle of the mat. “It's known for being almost like a dance.”
“Wait. Are you telling me that every fight that you have is… a dance battle?” Miles has such a cheeky grin on his face, and Peter barks out a laugh at the pure cheese of it.
“God, the one thing you’re a natural at, kid, is the quips.”
—
He should’ve listened to his tingle.
He’s been training Miles for months (two months, only two) now. He knows the kid well.
Miles is smart, incredibly so. The kid took to the science homework like a duck to water, he learns so quickly that it almost seems like he's been a Spider-Man his whole life. He’s got an enthusiasm for the job that makes Peter wonder if this was how Peters Two and Three felt. They even discovered he's got slightly different powers, a camouflage ability and electricity that bounces out of his hands with his emotions, so whatever spider that got Peter is clearly not the same one that got him.
Peter hasn’t returned the favor. He's talked about himself in the vaguest of terms, and even then, he'll only talk about his past in relation to Spider-Man. Avoided any personal questions like the plague, refusing even the slightest hint at who he could be under the mask. For a few reasons; a) he’s been down that road before, and everyone who knew who he was is either dead or forced to forget, and b) everytime he so much as thinks about it, a deep, unsettling feeling of dread fills him, a flare of his tingle so harsh it sets his teeth on edge.
It's been getting worse, too. His Aunt and Uncle's names might bubble up in his mouth but his tingle will flare and he'll bite his tongue. Miles asked him about his job and he couldn't even think about how he's a freelancer without his sense hissing sharply in his ear NO.
But. There’s still a part of Peter, a quiet but stubborn part of him, that craves to be seen. To be known as Peter Parker, Spider-Man. To have a friend, someone who can know who he is. After all, it’s been… years. Come August, he’ll be turning 21. If the whole erasure spell never happened, he’d be going into his junior year at MIT, he’d still have Ned and MJ and Aunt May.
All of this to say: he’s made up his mind. He’ll tell Miles who he is, once he decides he’s field-ready. Or, at least, as close to field-ready as one can get as a Spider-Man. (Spider-Person? Peters Two and Three never mentioned a Miles in their world, or an equivalent, but if Miles can be a Spider-Man, surely there exists a universe in which a girl or otherwise was bitten by a radioactive spider.)
That’s exactly what he does, too. But his damn Parker Luck just makes everything worse.
It’s a quiet, late April afternoon. Peter and Miles are racing through the city, limited to parkouring over the buildings in Harlem. There's a set of spare web-shooters in his pocket, ones that are fine-tuned not for his height and weight, but for the other Spider-Man.
Miles is keeping easy pace with him, a broad smile hidden underneath the spider mask. Every jump, twist, and sudden shift Peter does to throw him off, the kid is just behind him, not even hesitating as he pushes on. Even the leap he does - diving off a particularly tall building, to land in a roll on the roof of the bodega beside it - barely phases him.
Peter slows down after his jump, turning around to watch as Miles stops at the edge, for just a moment, peering over the side, assessing. He disappears, backing up, before launching over the edge, diving gracefully towards Peter, his form near-perfect. It makes Peter slightly regret that he didn’t bring his camera - it’s a good shot.
He lands in a roll next to him, tight and controlled. It’s a near-silent landing.
The spare web-shooters are burning in his pockets.
Miles lets out a whoop of excitement, lifting his mask to the bridge of his nose, allowing his bright grin to shine. Peter returns the smile, mirroring him with his own mask, and walks over to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder in commendation.
“Not bad, kid. Not bad,” he says, and lets his hand fall away, towards the hidden pocket on his thigh. “Probably about time you get a set of these.” He slips out the spare web-shooters, and holds them out in an open palm.
The lenses on Miles’ mask widen comically (man, Peter never quite realized how weird that is to watch from the other side), and he keeps looking back and forth between Peter and the shooters in disbelief. It takes him shaking his hand a little for the kid to finally grab them, slowly and carefully, as if they’ll fall apart the second they’re in his hand.
They don’t, obviously, because while Peter might have to use scraps nowadays, he still knows how to make things last. He guides Miles through the process of installing them on his wrists, securing them carefully and inspecting them to make sure he won’t trigger them accidentally. Once he’s confident, he takes a step back, and gestures forward, offering Miles the floor.
Slowly, Miles extends his arm, straight ahead, and breathes deep, and presses down.
The web thwips out, flying in an arc towards the far building. It sticks neatly, and Miles pulls on the suddenly-taut web experimentally, flicking it like a guitar string. A note rings out, though Peter does not know nearly enough about music to be able to name it.
Watching Miles, Peter can't help a sense of pride grow in his chest. He's ready.
Almost as soon as he has the thought, a deep-set sense of danger, oh no, wrong overtakes him, his tingle flaring so harsh it rattles his skull. It's unlike any warning in recent memory, and he can't help but grit his teeth against the sensation.
“Spider-Man? What's wrong?” Miles, web forgotten behind him, is looking at him, concern written all over his face. “Is something happening?”
“No, no, it's just-” Peter waves him off, raising a hand to his head, as if to alleviate a headache or something. ‘It's not a headache, though, it's a warning. But I don't know what for.’
(It doesn't matter. His tingle might be screaming at him, don’t do it, don't, no no no, but he has to. Maybe he doesn't want Miles to be alone. Maybe he just wants to be seen again.)
“Nothing's happening,” he says, letting his hand fall back down, ignoring the mounting pressure in his chest. It feels a bit like being flung around. “I just… wanted to tell you something.”
Miles cocks his head at him, confused.
Taking a deep, steadying breath (it feels like he's flying, the swooping feeling flipping his stomach inside out, the launch out of a cannon knocking the wind out of his lungs), Peter pulls off his mask, fully, and sticks out his hand. “Hi, Miles. I don't think we've properly met. My name's Peter Parker. I'm Spider-Man.”
The eyes of Miles suit widen again, though it doesn’t feel quite as comical this time. Before he can say something, before either of them can say anything, the terrible-horrible-swooping feeling reaches its crescendo, and a mere second later, Peter's… gone.
In the half-second he can take in information, he sees gold, shining rings of fire and runes wrap around his body, he sees the tear in the sky, crumbling and broken with purple void beyond. And Miles’ shocked face, his arm up and shooting a web at him, just barely too slow to latch on to him.
Then, quicker than a blink; it's gone.