So it turns out that Prowler's bike is actually pretty awesome when Miles isn't trying to escape it on foot.
Well, that's probably true for a lot of things about Prowler. It probably also helps that Miles feels good, better than he has in days, really. His headache is gone, and his cuts don't even hurt, and while he's not a big fan of waking with the sun—or before the sun, in this case—he's still not nearly as sluggish as he'd felt last night.
The wind's sharp this early in the morning, but Miles has his hood up and a scarf wound over his nose and mouth—as a disguise first, but it also doubles for keeping him warm, so he's able to just enjoy the ride. And he is: Uncle Aaron has a normal bike, too, that one he's taken Miles out on before, but this is something else, high tech, fast, and smooth.
Uncle Aaron drives it a little wilder than he was ever willing to do with Miles before, as well, whipping around corners and dodging past traffic with what seems like barely a thought. He thinks maybe Uncle Aaron is pushing the speed a little for him, a bit of fun before the seriousness sets back in, and it's a small thing, but Miles appreciates it.
He's...not scared, of course not, but maybe a little bit nervous about talking to the others.
It's silly, he knows that. He'd taken a quick second when Uncle Aaron had sent him to bundle up to stand alone in the bedroom and just spark, pull his power to his hands just to prove he could. And then invisibility, just to try, and that had come too, like pulling a hood over his head and peering out at the world from under the shadow of it. Like all he'd needed to do was believe it would happen.
So it's not like he's going to get there and suddenly fail again; he knows that he can do it, now. But that doesn't mean he's anywhere near caught up, either. He can't fight like the older spiders, or program like Peni, or move like Gwen, and if they want all of that too—
But he has to do this. So maybe the simplest explanation for his worry is that they still won't let him.
And that's without adding Prowler to the equation. Miles still can't really predict how that's going to go, whether it'll eventually act as a point or two in his favor or just set the rest of them against the idea of his help entirely. Uncle Aaron had sure seemed to think it would at least be an argument.
Well, it's one thing Miles is willing to argue for.
Walking from May Parker's house to Uncle Aaron's place had seemed to take forever last night, a walk of shame that hadn't helped him work out his thoughts at all. Flying by on the bike, though, it feels like it takes no time at all before Uncle Aaron slows to a speed that doesn't completely blur the world around them.
"We're not—" Miles starts to call up to him when he gets a better look at where they are—definitely not the right neighborhood—but Uncle Aaron just flicks a glance over his shoulder between the spikes of his cape: quick, but clear enough acknowledgement that Miles leaves the rest unsaid. He'd given up the address before they'd left, anyways; Uncle Aaron knows where he's going.
He has a better idea of what's going on when Uncle Aaron slips them into a tight alley and slows to a stop. Prowler's bike is a little conspicuous, he supposes.
"Not afraid someone's gonna steal it?" he asks, only half joking as Uncle Aaron cuts the power. He feels the shift of Uncle Aaron's back, like he might have either laughed or sighed, though whatever noise it is doesn't make it past the mask.
"Got its own defenses," Uncle Aaron says, every word gruff in that altered rumble, and Miles quickly shrugs off the prickle of wariness that he hasn't quite managed to lose yet.
It's almost a little annoying, because there's no one solid cause that he can point to. The voice a little, he thinks, but it could also be the spiky silhouette or the opaque glow of the eyes. Or maybe it's just the way Uncle Aaron moves when he thinks Miles isn't watching, the set of his shoulders like he's ready to lunge. There's something unfamiliar about it, something almost predatory that makes Miles keep one wary eye out for all that he knows the danger's gone.
It's kinda like the shape of his shadow at the window: familiar one moment and wrong the next, and Miles hasn't quite managed to classify both as safe yet.
He's trying—he believes that Uncle Aaron is sorry for hurting him, trusts that he actually does want to help. Miles wouldn't be taking him to the others if he didn't. Peter will probably say he's too trusting, but Miles isn't willing to give up on this just because he's feeling a little gun-shy.
And he knows Uncle Aaron's trying too. He moves slow and careful when he knows Miles is watching, keeps his voice soft and his claws gentle. And Miles wants to hate the fact that he's being babied, but...it does help a little, gives his heartbeat a chance to slow down when it jumps without his permission.
He's pretty sure it's not just him, anyways. Uncle Aaron seems to relax a little more every time Miles reaches out to touch him, or even just talks to him, for all that he doesn't always talk back. So maybe they're both a little nervous in different ways, but that's kinda comforting too.
Still. Defences could mean anything, now that he thinks about it. He looks the bike over a little closer as they both slide off, trying to pick out anything that might count.
"Nothin' deadly," Uncle Aaron assures him a second later, something like amusement tinging the mechanical flatness of his voice towards warmth.
Miles turns to frown at him for the teasing—if he hadn't wanted it to sound suspicious, then he shouldn't have said it that vague—but Uncle Aaron just blinks at him, long and slow like a lazy cat. Miles honestly can't tell if he's laughing or not.
And then abruptly, he very much hopes that the answer is not, as he remakes a few connections that he hadn't had the space for last night.
"But you've killed people before," he says before he can think better of it. It comes out as much an accusation as a question, because he's not sure he can believe it if Uncle Aaron says otherwise.
But Uncle Aaron stops moving again, a split-second freeze; what had felt watchful last night with the mask off feels almost dangerous to Miles with it on, like catching sight of a predator holding stock-still in tall grass. Miles' spider-sense stays dormant, though, not even a tickle of danger, and that does a lot to help him hold his ground.
"Yes," Uncle Aaron agrees, and then nothing else, like he's waiting for Miles to decide what he wants to do with that.
What is Miles supposed to do with that?
He bites the inside of his lip a little too hard, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet as he fights the restless urge to thinks maybe he's supposed to be angry, supposed to yell and demand answers, but he's somewhere heavier than that right now, a conflicted tangle lodged in his gut like a rock.
Maybe it's because he can't really say it's a complete shock, not anymore; he's known it pretty much since Uncle Aaron first pulled his mask off, since Uncle Aaron had tried to kill him, even if he'd pushed it out of mind for other things. He can probably even guess some of the reasons Uncle Aaron might give him for why, at this point. He's just…
"Doesn't it bother you?" he asks instead, because Uncle Aaron had admitted it freely, is still just watching him. Miles has no idea what killing someone is like, doesn't want to know, but he thinks if it were him, he'd feel guilty, or ashamed, or something.
And the question does at least seem to give Uncle Aaron pause. He stays quiet for a few moments, anyway, like he's thinking it through. It's hard to read him any more than that past the mask, and Miles forces his breathing to stay steady past the tightness in his chest.
"It used to," Uncle Aaron finally says, each word slow and reluctant in Prowler's heavy tones, "but y'learn to get over that quick, or you don't make it long in this work."
Miles' stomach sinks, and maybe his heart goes with it. "That shouldn't be something you just get over."
"No," Uncle Aaron admits quietly. He's drawn a little away now, stiff and avoiding Miles' eyes. Miles watches him flex one set of claws down by his side before he says, "I can tell you I try not to, when I can. But if you're lookin' for me to say it was only ever accidents, or that I didn't know what I was signin' up for here… I can't do that, Miles."
Miles swallows—he feels oddly shaky, his mouth too dry. He's always known Uncle Aaron had done some bad things in the past, his dad had made that clear enough, but there's a difference between a bit of trouble and killing people, and even knowing about the Prowler it's like he's struggling to fit it into place.
He'd thought—
Well. It doesn't matter what he'd thought, does it. Not when it's clear that there's so much he just never knew.
"I don't enjoy it," Uncle Aaron says after a few seconds, before the silence can stretch on even further. He seems to make a point of looking back and holding Miles' eyes then, his voice low and firm even past the distortion. "I ain't gonna lie and say it tears me up, 'cause you're quick enough to know better. But you don't gotta worry you'll catch me doin' it for fun, or any'a that nonsense."
"I don't want you doing it at all," Miles blurts out, the words spilling out before he even really realizes what he wants to say. Uncle Aaron blinks down at him and Miles squares his shoulders under that stare. His heart's going too fast again and his stomach is a shivery sort of queasy, but this is important. "You can't kill anyone else. If we're doing this together… No more killing."
He nearly says please and then bites it back instinctively. He's not asking. He does still want Uncle Aaron with him, yes, he can't lie to himself about that. Even now, even knowing that he's killed before, and maybe that says something not so great about Miles, another problem atop a growing pile that he'll have to struggle through later.
But this, right here: this is still a line.
"I kinda figured," Uncle Aaron says, slow like he's not quite sure why Miles is being so forceful about it. "Already said I wasn't gonna make you have to...deal with me, and that's part of the same."
"Promise," Miles insists, because Uncle Aaron hasn't full out said that he won't yet, and Miles needs to hear it.
"I promise," Uncle Aaron says evenly, his face still hidden, but the glowing eyes of his mask holding Miles' gaze. "No more killing."
Miles lets out a breath at that, the straight, immediate agreement instead of the argument he'd half expected. That's something, right? That's good. Not the sort of promise he'd ever thought he'd have to extract, but the thought of Uncle Aaron trying to fight him on it is still much, much worse.
Uncle Aaron shifts on his feet, the closest Miles has seen him to fidgeting in costume, and then steps in closer and reaches for him, slow and obvious enough that Miles could step away. Still so careful, like he's trying to avoid any semblance of a threat. And Miles still feels a bit shaky, twitchy in his own skin, but he doesn't want Uncle Aaron to think he's still scared, either.
So he holds still and Uncle Aaron's hand lands carefully on his shoulder, the cold metal and sharp claws muffled by the thickness of Miles' hoodie.
"I can't take back what I've done, I know that," Uncle Aaron says quietly, squeezing Miles' shoulder and then drawing back again when he looks up. He looks almost smaller, Prowler's sharp, fierce lines somehow hunched down into something that doesn't make Miles' heart jump just to look at him. "And I let you down, I know that too. But I'm gonna do better now, Miles, I swear. I'm gonna be better."
He sounds earnest enough too, even with his voice so distorted, and the words do ease a little of the lingering weight in Miles' chest. He's trying. Maybe that shouldn't be enough, but Miles isn't willing to throw it back at him either.
"All right," Miles acknowledges with a sigh, accepting the promise and the comfort both even if he knows this probably isn't the last time it'll come up. The tight knot in his belly unwinds just a little and he watches as Uncle Aaron's stiff shoulders seem to loosen in turn.
Then Miles breathes deep, shaking his hands out and pulling all his focus back to their more immediate concerns. Freak-outs later. They are on a time limit, here. "So. We walking?"
He's mostly joking, trying to shake out of the mood he'd brought on, but Uncle Aaron, after watching him for a moment longer, just tilts his head back to look up at the tops of the tall buildings on either side of them, and— Oh.
Miles peers up at the edge of the rooftops and then looks down at his own wrists, the borrowed web-shooter peeking out from the rolled cuff of his sleeve. Spiderman would be able to get up to that roof, easy.
Uncle Aaron looks back down at him, a question in the very slight angle of his head.
"Go ahead," Miles tells him, managing to sound more confident than he feels. He squints up at the wall, bouncing a little from foot to foot. He's swung before—he'd done well at it, even. This can't be any harder. "I'll be right behind you."
Uncle Aaron nods, unquestioning in a way that's almost a little flattering, and then moves, a crouch and leap so quick he nearly blurs, boots flaring as they ignite. Miles watches close as he hits one wall and springs immediately to the opposite, ricocheting himself easily up to the top.
Miles glances at the space between the walls, considering—a week ago and he'd have said they were too far apart for that sort of thing, but while he's never really stretched his powers, he's pretty sure he can at least match Uncle Aaron's jumps. Or at the very least he can just walk up, as long as he doesn't stick—
"Miles," Uncle Aaron says—he's crouched, looking down from above like a too-bright gargoyle, claws curled over the edge and cape draped down it like a tail. He settles in lower when Miles looks over at him, like he's prepared to wait as long as he needs to, and says, "Stop thinking. Just go."
Stop thinking, he says, like it's that easy, as though the last time Miles had tried to jump rooftops he hadn't—
But it's different. He knows it's different. He's got webs to catch himself on if he needs them, and nothing important in his pockets to break. And this time he's not alone either; Uncle Aaron could catch him even if he didn't have the webs. This is the basics, Spidering 101. He can do this.
Still, with that memory in mind, he ducks down real quick to tie his still-loose shoe. Guess you were right about that, dad.
Then he sets his feet and—don't think, just go—sprints for the wall, coming in at an angle, and when he leaps—
He goes farther than he expects, a wild upwards spring that launches him high. And it's a little like that jump he'd made without thinking to dodge a car, or that first successful swing. Instinct kicks in for a movement that should be anything, but instinctive as he hits the wall and the next step takes him up, feet sticking just enough that it's as simple as running across the ground.
He makes a noise without meaning to, garbled and wordless as the ground falls away in the corner of his eye and all his words tangle in his throat, excitement thrumming through him bright and shimmering like his lightning. And one success makes him brave enough that when the idea pops up, he kicks off, leaping to the opposite wall like Uncle Aaron had done.
And it's easy. His stomach lurches as his feet leave the wall—he's already higher up than he'd realized and okay, that wall is far—but he barely has time to realize all this before he hits the other side, and with that momentum it's easiest just to carry on jumping.
He only has room to bounce back and forth twice more before he hits the top; he vaults himself up over the edge and tumbles onto the roof, laughing a little as he steadies himself.
"That was so cool," he says to Uncle Aaron, bright, wild bubbles rising up in him that want to come spilling out, leaving him hopping and swaying from foot to foot. He knows it isn't really any more impressive than the swinging he'd managed before, but it all still feels so unfamiliar that it's hard not to get excited over every new thing.
Uncle Aaron doesn't seem to mind anyways, for all that he must've been doing this sort of stuff for years. Miles thinks he's starting to catch the cues, the minute shifts of the mask that still give him away, and so he's pretty sure that Uncle Aaron is smiling.
Miles twists to stare at the rooftops laid out around them, all new paths suddenly clear to his eyes. And with even just this one web-shooter—
He can't sit still—he feels better than he has in days, and the sun has started to rise, flares of pink and gold across the sky that only bring his mood higher. He traces the path to May Parker's house in his head, matching it vaguely to the rooftops he can see, and so when Uncle Aaron straightens up beside him and the idea sparks, he feels just confident enough to challenge, "Race you?"
Uncle Aaron's blank, white eye lenses narrow in apparent consideration, though not for all that long. "You're on."
And then, without waiting another moment, he launches himself off the edge of the roof, hitting the next building with ease.
"Hey!" Miles protests. "Cheater!"
But Uncle Aaron clearly isn't going to wait and so Miles takes off after him. Three steps in and he hits the edge himself, and he's just distracted enough that he barely thinks about the leap, the gaping stretch of the fall that passes beneath him, until he's already hit the other side.
Uncle Aaron's already off though, bounding away across walls, windows, and streetlights, cape flaring behind him. And Miles can't say web-swinging is perfectly natural yet, but he knows it now, and so he throws a web out on the run, only barely checking to see if it hits before he's off, the world flashing by in a blur.
Thwip, release, thwip, release, Peter's voice a chant in his head, and he's feeling it out, picking up speed, whirling himself around corners and obstacles. And, he thinks, he might be starting to catch up.
"Yeah, you better run!" he hollers after Uncle Aaron, a whirlwind flash of purple ahead of him, and he flings himself off the next web with abandon, the wind from the speed of his movement alone threatening to pull away his scarf and hood as he dives full tilt into the chase.
If this is how they're gonna play, Miles decides, giddy from the rush, then he's got a few tricks up his sleeves, too.
Feels weird, being in Aunt May's house again.
Part of that weirdness is the familiarity; Peter had spent most of his childhood here. A good amount of adult years, too. And this universe's Peter had been similar enough—this May is similar enough—that he doesn't even get multiverse differences to act as a buffer. Not enough to matter, anyway.
His Aunt May had died years ago; he'd had time for grieving, but he knows better, now, than to think he'll ever really be over it, as it were. And so this house—
He'd relax for a minute, thinking that maybe he had a handle on it, and then he'd see something small, like a stain on the carpet, and think oh hell, I remember that, Aunt May was so mad—
And then he has to take a minute to resettle himself, because Aunt May's gone—except she isn't, she's right there, familiar footsteps in the next room. But not his Aunt May, no matter how familiar she feels, and Peter has never wanted to talk to MJ so bad in his life.
Not going to happen, he knows that. This isn't even his universe, and this Peter's MJ...well, he knows just how cruel that would be.
So it's doing a bit of a number on him, this place. Peter's man enough to admit that. His heart feels nearly as bruised as his body after that glitched fall through the trees, and god, he just wants to sleep.
May had offered his old— She'd offered her Peter's old room last night, but he hadn't been able to stomach it, had foisted it off on Gwen instead to share with Peni if she ever came in from her coding. And so now here he is, trying and failing to sleep on the couch with two other versions of himself—one a black-and-white detective and the other a pig, seriously, what the hell—sacked out in different corners with stray blankets and pillows.
Funny. All the tiny things he'd remembered about this house, and he'd forgotten just how uncomfortable this damn couch had been. Or is it just him that's changed? He hopes not. Makes him feel like an old geezer, grumbling about his back.
But either way, it's a long night of twisting and turning, and he's probably not helping things by perking his ears up every time he hears footsteps outside, either. Though that does mean he hears it immediately when Aunt May gets up in the morning, waking with the sun the way she always has. After a few minutes, he kicks off the blankets and joins her, scrubbing his fingers through his hair.
He knows when she sees him: the very slightest pause, the way her hand tightens on the handle of the kettle she's about to boil. She's been handling it well, but her Peter had died only days ago, and coming from the other direction, he knows—
Well. It's hard not to hug her, that's all.
He doesn't, though. He's not hers, and he's pretty sure she's been keeping some distance for exactly that reason. And if he's just going to go back to his own universe today, anyway...
If. He shakes the thought away.
"Peter," Aunt May murmurs, offering him a small, tired smile, and he moves to help her with the morning routine without thinking about it.
"Morning, Aunt May," he sighs. Then it's quiet between then for a few long moments, and Peter's never been great with quiet, himself. But they'd already touched on the big, multiverse-shattering info last night, and so now he's struggling to find something that isn't too much, too soon first thing in the morning. His mind turns automatically to the other problem that had kept him up. "I don't think Miles came back last night."
Not unless he went straight out to the shed, and Peter's pretty sure he'd have heard that as well. And okay, he does feel a little bad about the way last night had gone, even if none of them had been exactly wrong in the things they'd said. He'd been in those beginner shoes once, in a way, and he knows he wouldn't have handled that well either.
"Give him time," Aunt May advises, and Peter nods because of course he'd planned to. He's known Miles long enough to believe that the kid's not going to just take off and leave them.
But time is the one thing they're short of, and coming back is one thing, but being ready?
Well, Peter will wait and see. Miles had picked up swinging like a champ, and maybe last night could have given him something of a push, even if it's just the drive to prove their doubts wrong. But there's also been the foundations of a plan formulating in the back of Peter's mind for a while now, and if he has to—
He's had enough people die for him, because of him. He's not letting a kid—a brand new spider, still just taking his first steps, with so much left to give—die because Peter had been too afraid to step up to the plate.
Monochrome Peter wanders into the kitchen to join them (and they really should make some sort of nicknames here soon, Peter thinks, or this is going to get out of hand) with Porker and Gwen only a few minutes behind. Noir-Peter is the only one making the effort to keep his mask on, though seeing Porker with his mask off is distracting enough that Peter barely notices it.
"Did Peni get any sleep last night?" he asks Gwen, and then suddenly can't shake the thought of himself as a den mother, herding reluctant spider-scouts off to bed. He'd been young when he'd started: too young, really. And yet, half of this group is younger still.
"Came in for a bit, I think." Gwen shrugs, gnawing on one of the bagels Aunt May had pulled out for them. Peter frowns, but there's not much to be done about it. And even if he could, Peni's clearly the fastest choice to format that key, and the sooner they have it in hand, the better.
He thinks he catches Gwen throwing a few expectant glances towards the front door, but other than the occasional low murmur of voices from what Peter's pretty sure are more mourners passing by, no one's come near it. She doesn't ask, either. It's clear who's still missing.
So Peter puts aside some food for Peni, and Miles too, just in case, and they all settle into a loose, strangely comfortable huddle in the kitchen to eat, thanking Aunt May when she slides a ready coffee pot and some mugs onto the table for them.
Peter's eyeing up his noir double—who's pushed his mask up over his nose to eat, proving that his skin is as monochrome as the rest of him—when he hears a light thump on the roof, followed by the unmistakable patter of feet.
He perks up and catches all the other spiders doing the same, heads tilting up towards the ceiling. All likelihood says that it's probably Miles, and if he's gained enough confidence to go running across rooftops to get back to them, then that's definitely a good sign. Peter smiles, pushing off from his lean against the table. "I'll go—"
A second impact on the roof—heavier, this time, the running stride longer. Peter feels his heart skip, glancing back to meet Gwen's equally wide-eyed look. It could just be another spider, maybe, one last dimensional traveller that Miles had found along the way.
But it sounds like a chase.
Peter darts for the back door, hearing chairs scrape and cups clatter down as the others catch on. If he's wrong, that's fine; they'll all just say hello. But his instincts say otherwise, a mix between experience and a very low prickle of spider-sense warning him that something else is going on.
He makes it to the back door in time to see Miles hit the ground, probably from a straight leap off the roof. Not a bad landing either, with a neat roll and then a slide across the ground that he uses to turn himself back towards the house. He'd lost the terrible costume somewhere too, switching it out for a thick hoodie and scarf, which he yanks down in the next second.
"Aw, yeah!" he crows in what looks like sheer delight, grinning back up towards the roof. "Take that—"
Noise over Peter's head, and he looks up just in time to see the next runner leap off: a flash of deep purple glowing bright in the sun, the briefest glimpse of cape and claws, and—
Look. Peter had messed up with Doc Ock, he knows that. He'd made a series of assumptions about several different things, and without Gwen there it probably would've gone really, really badly. So he'd looked over blond-Peter's map of baddies last night, familiarized himself with what they'd be dealing with, dimensional differences and all.
Which means that, even though there's been a bit of a color swap, something of a costume change, Peter sees those claws bearing down on Miles and knows, immediately, Prowler.
Peter leaps a heartbeat later, springing up just in time to drive into Prowler's side and knock him off target. Prowler barks a wordless noise, surprise or pain or both, and twists too late, only barely tapping Peter's shoulder with a claw before Peter bowls him away into the fence. It shudders, but holds.
Someone's shouting—several people are shouting, but Prowler had just bounced right back to his feet and so Peter charges for him again. The others aren't new to this, they'll get Miles and Aunt May out of the way, hopefully before the next goons show up, who knows how many Prowler's brought in behind him—
"Peter, don't—" and then Miles is in the way, launching himself right into Peter's path.
Peter throws on the brakes, skidding and flailing a little as he tries to stop in time to keep from either bowling Miles over or landing flat in the dirt. Only, maybe he should've just kept going, because in his distraction he doesn't see Prowler lunge forward and grab the kid until after it's already happened.
Peter regains his balance and then freezes, reassessing. Prowler's got his back to the fence, hunched and bristling like a fluffed-out cat as the other spiders circle to close him in. But now he also has Miles, claws sunk into the scruff of his shirt to bring him along, and Miles is—
—not struggling.
Peter blinks.
Nope, he'd been right the first time. Miles' hands are up and he's squirming a little, squiggly like a puppy with its paws held off the ground, but he's not fighting. He is talking, though, Peter realizes, flailing his hands at them like he's trying to draw attention, and finally the words start to trickle through.
"—guys, guys, stop, it's okay. He's friendly—" Miles sounds almost pleading, and when he meets Peter's eyes he actually hops a little, visibly anxious and yet completely ignoring the supervillain standing behind him with easy access to his neck. "Peter, listen—"
"Friendly?" Peter demands as that part of the chatter actually registers in his brain, because on what planet? But his voice blends with the others as everyone has approximately the same reaction.
"Miles, what're you—?" Gwen's tense voice crosses over Porker's voice muttering something about wake-up calls, and Noir, closest to Peter and still balanced like he's ready to fight, is saying, "—didn't look friendly—"
"Ahem." The sound of Aunt May pointedly clearing her throat is enough to override them all, and Peter's pretty sure they all look as one to the back step. She's standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, expression disapproving, and for an abrupt half-second Peter is sixteen years old again, sneaking in late after brawling in back alleys.
Aunt May holds her stare a moment longer, as though to make sure she has them all properly quelled, and then turns to the main culprit, one eyebrow raising in polite demand. "Miles?"
"Er—" Miles looks straight up sheepish, one hand going up to rub at the back of his head, and Peter blinks when Prowler just lets go of him entirely, claws falling away. That's not exactly proper hostage-taking protocol as Peter knows it, even if Prowler's still way too close to Miles for his liking, watching them all with narrowed, glowing eyes. "Sorry, Mrs. Parker, I didn't think about— We were just racing; we didn't mean to scare anyone."
Racing? Peter blinks, feeling like he must have misheard, but Gwen looks just as doubtful when he glances her way, so maybe not. Is it a lie? A bad one, if it is, and why would Miles be lying in the first place? Doesn't make sense.
But somehow, Peter doesn't get the feeling that Miles is being obtuse on purpose, either—more like he really does just feel bad that he'd sent them all dashing out in a panic and so he'd decided to address that first. The supervillain can wait, apparently.
"Are you going to introduce your friend?" Aunt May prompts as though she doesn't know, unshaken as ever in the face of this ridiculousness. Peter, for all that he's busy watching Prowler's every move, can't stop the wistful, raw burst of fondness that flares in his chest. Damn, he's missed her.
"Oh! Right," Miles says, glancing back for a split second at Prowler, though he still doesn't seem anything like properly concerned. Peter frowns at him instead for a moment, trying to get a better read on the situation, but then his eye catches on something else, and his heart plummets into his stomach.
"Miles," he interrupts, and struggles to match Aunt May's patience as the first spark of real anger starts to burn, "what happened to your face?"
Miles' eyes dart in his direction and then away, chin ducking down and shoulders hunching up a little, which does absolutely nothing to hide the edges of the mostly-healed claw marks carved out across his temple. From what Peter can see, they probably go deeper along the side of his head, and alright, you know what, Peter's about ready to put Prowler through a couple of walls.
"Okay, I know what this looks like," Miles starts, which is rich, because in Peter's opinion nothing about this is adding up to a coherent picture so far, "but I can explain—"
Prowler makes a noise then, a low, mechanical burr, and Peter snaps his attention back immediately. He hasn't moved, still looming over Miles like a threat—though he's not really posed like one, Peter realizes after a moment. He's angled away instead of squaring off, head low and all his weight on his back foot, like he's closer to running now than lashing out.
It also looks oddly deliberate, a considered presentation of nonaggression, and Peter knows better than to trust it.
But then Prowler actually speaks for the first time. "Oughta take this inside."
Ah, this one has a voice modulator. It pitches him deep and harsh in a way that Peter immediately wants to mock, but he's a bit reluctant to get quippy with Miles still in the way, so he bites down on the words and just narrows his eyes, trying to place the trap. Beyond the risk of a goon invasion though, he can't really find one; the suggestion itself isn't technically unreasonable, for all that Peter's knee-jerk reaction is to refuse on principle.
Fence or not, they're still somewhat exposed here if any of the neighbors decide to get nosy, and Peter knows for a fact that there have been people passing by close enough that an actual fight would alert them—and endanger them. Besides, the claws are a pain in close quarters, but otherwise Prowler's not doing himself any favors by limiting his own space to maneuver while he's so outnumbered.
Maybe he does want to talk, then.
And his spider sense, Peter realizes suddenly, hasn't yet spiked beyond the low prickle that had started in the kitchen, even during their quick scuffle. Which probably means that, if there is a goon invasion, then it's not imminent, but it's also...strange.
"Please?" Miles adds a second later, after another quick glance back at Prowler's voice, and immediately Peter's dread increases twice over again.
Because as far as he can tell, Miles and Prowler have been in each other's company for a max of twelve hours—including, apparently, enough time for Prowler to claw Miles in the face and then for Miles to sleep it off long enough to heal. And yet, despite that and the injuries, Prowler's somehow got the kid taking cues from him already.
This could be a problem.
Peter glances sideways to catch Aunt May's eyes. She'd got a better poker face than he's ever managed, but he can tell she's concerned too. No doubt she's also weighed the dangers of inside vs out—though now with the added caveat that, for Miles' sake, they can't afford to let Prowler bolt if he might take Miles with him.
"No fighting in the house," she says, glancing once over all of them before returning to hold her stare on Prowler. For a moment, Peter thinks he's going to refuse to respond, but then he gives her a curt nod.
"Understood," Prowler rumbles, and Aunt May steps to the side, holding the door open imperiously for the rest of them. Peter hesitates, glancing at Miles, who catches the look.
"Okay, good. Great. Let's go, then." Miles shuffles a little, weaving awkwardly in place before breaking to lead the way into the house. To Peter's surprise, Prowler follows right on his heels, giving them his back with no visible hesitation. Peter glances at the others, reads the same uneasiness that he's feeling, and then follows a few feet behind.
The thing is, Miles doesn't really seem cowed. Nothing about Prowler's presence or proximity really seems to bother him. And for all that Peter can think of dozens of scenarios, each darker than the last, that would give Prowler some measure of control over the kid this quick, he doubts that Miles is that good of an actor.
He's missing something here. And he knows it's probably because he's making assumptions again in some way, which hadn't gone all that well for him last time, but it's very difficult not to.
It's been a while since Peter's had to deal with his own Prowler directly—bigger fish to fry, usually, and his Prowler's definitely only gotten sneakier over the years, so they don't actually run into each other all that often anymore. They hadn't tangled that much to start, anyways. Prowler'd always had a knack for flying under the radar, at least while working on his own.
He'd been a vicious sort, though, Peter remembers that much. A thief, and good at it, but he'd never seemed to have any compunctions about collateral damage when stealth and sneaking didn't work out. And he'd certainly never pulled his punches on Peter either, those few times they'd fought.
But this isn't his Prowler—Peter needs to remember that before he makes a mistake that he can't afford. Hell, it could even be an entirely different person under that mask instead of an alternate copy. The build looks close enough to what he remembers, but the color scheme and the prominent, permanent claws are deviations. So's the cape, actually—what is it with this universe and capes?
Quiet one, too. Peter's Prowler had been something of a shit-talker, quick threats and snide comebacks, but this one's barely said a thing so far, letting Miles do most of the talking.
Why? What's it get him, coming here, if it wasn't to spring a trap as soon as he'd found them? Had Miles talked him into something instead of the other way around, as unlikely as that sounded? What's the incentive?
Peter needs answers.
And he's about two seconds away from demanding them as they all pack into the kitchen, Aunt May closing the door firmly behind her, but just as he opens his mouth to do just that, Prowler turns back to face them and pulls off his mask.
Peter almost bites his tongue.
Okay. Okay, of all the things he'd been prepared for, that hadn't really been one of them. Well played.
And of course he can't help staring for a few moments. Not a face he's familiar with, and he'd never unmasked his own Prowler, so he can't even use that for comparison, but he also can't help cataloguing. Black, twenties to thirties, bald head and trimmed beard, just as long and lean in the face as in the body, though Peter can't deny that he might have taken a second look if they'd just been strangers passing in the street—
Then Peter does take a second look, peering a little closer, trying to place the niggling feeling that springs up in the back of his mind. Something about the shape of his cheekbones, a familiarity in the curve of his jaw—
He probably only gets it because Miles and Prowler are right next to each other, Miles looking upwards in apparent surprise. He's not even sure which tiny little detail does it, but it's the sudden, proverbial lightbulb, a dozen half-realized similarities falling together into one coherent oh.
And that cascades through his mind like a rampaging bull, violently rearranging all his half-panicked confusion into something that makes a lot more sense than anything he'd managed to come up with. Peter can't really call it a relief, though—the feeling is really a lot closer to aw, fuck.
This kid just can't seem to catch a break.
Miles only shows his surprise for a second before spinning back to face them, face so painfully hopeful that Peter wants to wince.
"So, uh, turns out he's my Uncle Aaron," Miles says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Prowler, who honestly doesn't look any more approachable with his mask off—slightly more ticked off, even, Peter thinks. Prowler doesn't deny it, though. His uncle. Well, that's awkward. "Uncle Aaron, this is—"
"And he still clawed you up?" Noir interrupts. He's got his arms crossed, but his feet are braced, Peter sees. Still ready to fight. Smart.
"I didn't know it was him," Prowler snaps and hey, normal voice. The words come smoother, the inflections more prominent, and Peter is definitely starting to pick up some unfortunately familiar vibes just listening to him. Not entirely, though, because this Prowler suddenly backs off the aggression where Peter's definitely would have pressed it, drawing himself in. "You don't gotta tell me I fucked up, I know that. 's why I'm here."
Oh, of all the—
"And you just brought him here?" Peter turns to Miles before he can stop himself. Alright, it's his family, apparently, so Peter should probably cut him some slack, but family doesn't always mean trustworthy, and now he's put them all in danger.
"He's going to help," Miles says firmly, like if he just puts enough confidence into his voice it'll make the words true. He's got himself all puffed up like he's ready for a fight and Peter resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. "He didn't need me to know you were here, and he could'a just killed me last night, but he didn't, he's been helping me—"
"Was that supposed to be comforting?" Peter knows his voice is a little too high, but Miles seems way too easy with the idea of his own uncle murdering him. Together with the injuries they've already seen, it's painting a picture Peter really doesn't like.
Except then Prowler shifts, a silent little adjustment that Miles doesn't seem to notice, but Peter definitely does, and his face…
Prowler looks almost as sickened as Peter feels at the thought, expression tightening into a grimace as he hunches a little away from Miles, gaze darting around the kitchen. He smooths it out some when he catches Peter looking, but it's enough to give Peter pause.
"He lied to Kingpin for me. I heard him," Miles insists, drawing Peter's attention back to him, and that's…hmm. It could still be a trick, but if it's true, well. Kingpin's not someone who takes that sort of thing lightly. Peter glances between them, his firm stance of oh hell no just a tiny bit shaken in spite of himself as Miles stares earnestly up at him. "I didn't even know who he was yet, and he'd already decided to help."
"Look, you got reason to doubt me, I won't argue that," Prowler breaks in. He's still watching all of them intently, but he keeps his tone low, away from the snap and snarl Peter had learned to expect from his version. "But Miles is family. I ain't throwin' that away for Kingpin's little pet project."
Peter hesitates, trying to gauge Prowler's honesty. He's measuring his words carefully, that much is clear, but the effect feels more conciliatory than outright manipulative, and that honestly surprises Peter almost as much as the rest of it. Most of the villains he deals with would never bend their necks that far.
"You've been doing his dirty work this whole time—" Gwen starts, doubt in every word, but Prowler just scowls at her.
"It was a job. Paid well, but ain't nothin' he could pay me that would be enough for this," he says, with a flare of claws at Miles' back. He glares at them all and, next to Miles' stubborn stare, Peter can suddenly see the family resemblance even more clearly. "And I know better than to try'n reason with him. So he wants Miles dead, and I'll bet me too when I tell him no, so as I see it, I got nothin' to lose by flippin' sides."
"And it's that simple, huh?" Peter snorts, a forced retort that he doesn't really feel, not with his insides in so many knots.
It's clear what Miles is hoping for, clear what his uncle has promised, and Peter really doesn't want to think of the heartbreak if Prowler's just yanking his chain. Which Prowler probably is, because Blondie's notes on this guy go back years, and the likelihood of someone that deep in the villain act just suddenly turning their coat entirely, even for family? Very slim.
He can't blame Miles for trying, he really can't, because he's been doing this for a lot longer, and Prowler's words feel truthful even to him. But when he thinks about all the ways this could turn around and bite them—
But then Prowler just looks at him—none of the scorn or irritation Peter had been expecting, or even some overworked display of regret, if he'd felt like going in the other direction. He looks closer to amused than anything else, though a very distant, background sort, like he thinks Peter's missing something obvious.
"Don't have kids, do you," Prowler says, no real question in it at all, hitting Peter like a slap despite the fact that, for once, it clearly isn't meant as one. He bristles, but Prowler isn't even looking at him anymore—he's turned his gaze to Miles, and for a very quick moment his expression softens into something gentle enough that Peter can't help staring. "Yeah. It's that simple."
He doesn't seem to care if Peter believes him or not, either, which is lucky, because Peter's suddenly preoccupied trying to beat some common sense back into his own head. Just because it feels true doesn't mean it is, but he can't quite shake away that split second of unguarded affection. If it isn't real, the guy's got better acting skills than Peter ever would have given him credit for.
Peter has another thought and perks his ears up to the neighborhood outside—nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he can hear. If Prowler'd just been using Miles to track down the rest of them, wouldn't he have brought all of Kingpin's goons on his heels to take care of the problem?
So the other option—that he means it, that Miles matters more to him than the standing he's built up—well, it's ridiculous.
But if it's true...
It might be kind of annoying, actually. All the villains Peter's tried to turn back over the years, and this is the one that just hops back over the line with no warning? Really?
Prowler's not waiting on him anyways; he looks to Aunt May instead, a careful, sideways glance. "You're probably gonna be seein' some less friendly visitors here soon, though. Kingpin's not takin' any chances this time. Might have another few hours, but—"
"And how did he know where to look?" Gwen demands before Peter can.
"Well, he doesn't know for sure that we're here yet," Miles chimes in to explain. He watches Gwen as he talks, with a vaguely hopeful air that reminds Peter of her earlier glances at the door, but Peter isn't in the mood to further appreciate the blossoming puppy love right now. "They just figured it was likely, so they'll come to check here first."
"Octavius made some educated guesses," Prowler agrees sourly, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall behind him. He looks almost relaxed now, but he's placed himself right next to the door to the living room, and Peter expects he could be out and gone in two seconds.
Aunt May makes a noise in her throat, something Peter reads as a mix of irritation and resignation. She's halfway through an exasperated gesture when he turns to her, hands falling out to the sides as she sighs, "Oh, of course she did."
Sounds like more history there that Peter isn't aware of. And in his opinion, she could stand to look a little more worried about an impending invasion of supervillains, but he expects that saying so wouldn't get him very far. As it is, she only looks mildly annoyed, her mouth pinched as though this further disruption to her day is just a minor inconvenience.
"Someone let Peni know that she's got a time limit, then," she sighs, eyes a little distant like she's thinking things through, plans coming together and falling apart in her head, and there it is again. In the space of a heartbeat, Peter misses her, a sharp, fierce aching that leaves him just a little hollowed out.
"On it," Porker chirps after a moment, and Peter at least gets the dubious joy of the look on Prowler's face as he actually registers just who's talking.
It doesn't distract him for long, though, because once Porker's skipped out through the back door, he offers, "Better warn his wife too, if you've a way. She's next on the list."
MJ. Peter hadn't seen so much as a glimpse of her since that (for him, anyway) very awkward memorial service. Spiderman's wife—she must be very much in the public eye, and now with none of the protection that marriage might once have given her.
He shifts on his feet, twitchy just at the thought. The grudge this Kingpin carries is very personal, from what he's been told. If he decides he'd like to make a point, or even just decides that he wants the satisfaction…
"She's been invited to a memorial dinner at Fisk Tower tonight," Aunt May shares, lips pursing in clear distaste. Peter can understand why. That's bold, even for Kingpin. "I'll let her know, but I expect he'll at least want the satisfaction of watching her sit through it."
She's going? Peter wants to demand, but he's aware that he doesn't get a say here. Probably wouldn't have had much of a say with his own MJ either, even before they'd split; that'd been a point of contention, once. But then again, these very public appearances must be on purpose—maybe it's safer for her, with any chance of anonymity torn away. The more eyes on her, the less likely she is to just...disappear.
"And you'll know when they're on the way?" Aunt May asks, and Prowler nods, one silver claw lifting up to tap at a subtle earpiece.
The tension in the kitchen seems to be dialing down, especially since Aunt May at least seems to be accepting Prowler's word for the moment. The rest of the spiders are apparently as inclined as Peter to trust her judgement, and in truth, it's becoming harder and harder for Peter to hold to a hard line of suspicion. Why would Prowler bother with this many lies if Kingpin could have just sent every villain he could buy to bust the door down without warning instead?
This doesn't change the fact that they still haven't really discussed the ambiguously-villainous elephant in the room, though.
"Next run for the collider's tonight, too," said elephant informs them, which they'd known, technically, but in the context of the dinner it's a little more concerning. Either Kingpin's very sure of his results this time or, more likely, he's started to give up on subtlety entirely. "Might take a little more work, but there'll be less of a fight if we slip in before then."
"We?" Noir manages to sound more curious than demanding.
"If he's goin', so am I," Prowler says flatly, jerking his chin at Miles, who lifts his head and looks at Peter with expectant eyes. Ah hell, back to this, then.
"We haven't decided if he's going," Peter points out, holding firm to his stern expression even when Miles gives him a somewhat betrayed scowl. He frowns at Prowler too, for good measure. "And you are a whole 'nother level of discussion altogether, don't even get me started."
It really is a whole different level, too. On the surface, having Prowler there to provide backup for Miles could be a good thing—so long as he's telling the truth, and they won't know that for certain until after it's too late. So if they're wrong, then it's back to Miles on his own, while also potentially fighting his uncle. Not good.
He'd figured he'd get some growling for it, but Prowler just huffs a very quiet laugh, lips curling up and one eyebrow raising, amusement lighting up his face in interesting ways. Peter frowns a little harder, mostly at himself.
"Yeah, I wasn't askin' for permission," Prowler says. His tone is easy in a way that almost takes the defiance out of the words, but his meaning's clear enough. "And I don't think he is either."
"I'm not," Miles agrees immediately, and Peter sighs internally. "It's my decision to make."
It's probably one of the more forceful statements he's heard Miles make yet and hell, you know what, spirit and confidence, that's a good thing. But it doesn't actually prove anything either.
So Peter's about to point out that no, it really isn't—feeling ridiculously like a tyrant parent in a cheesy teen drama, what even is his life—when Prowler shifts just a little in the corner of his vision. And then Peter abruptly realizes that any attempt to enforce that just got about five times more difficult, if stopping Miles now also means stopping Prowler at the same time. They could manage it, with their numbers, but still. Not great.
Which means he's going to have to be delicate and that's...not always his forte.
"Miles—" he sighs, trying to find a way to phrase it that he thinks a teenage boy would accept, to explain that he's worried, not dismissive. Miles is shaking his head before he even starts, though, jaw set and skinny shoulders squaring up.
"You don't have another option," he says, as though Peter hasn't realized the consequences of refusing him, when it's been fairly constant in his mind. He loses any urge to snap in the face of Miles' earnestness, though. It doesn't look like this is about proving himself. He looks worried, wrinkled brows and a serious frown. "I'm not letting any of you die—"
"And I'm trying to keep you alive," Peter retorts, resisting the urge to tug his own hair out in frustration. No kids, he'd said, and so of course that just means he goes straight to teenagers.
"I know, but I told you, I'm not doing that again," Miles says, a little softer, but no less stubborn, and Peter's heart clenches. "No one told you when you were allowed to be Spiderman, did they?"
Peter sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. It's hard to get mad at a kid who clearly just wants to help—who's already seen the consequences and just wants to spare Peter the same—but that honestly just makes this more important.
"I didn't have anyone to tell me that, and maybe I should've," Peter goes with, because now's not really the time to get into what his aunt might've said if he'd told her at sixteen. "But Miles, I had a lot more time and a lot more practice before I landed in something this dangerous, enough time to learn what I was doing. It'd be one thing if you already had your powers under wraps, but—"
The air around Miles crackles and snaps; Peter's heart skips a beat as blue-white electricity sparks through Miles' eyes and then rolls down his body in jagged little leaps. It shines bright even in the early morning sun, a tiny, contained storm that raises the hair on Peter's neck. Miles has barely moved, still meeting Peter's eyes, his jaw clenched and his gaze bright and steady, framed at the edges by his own lightning.
He's controlling it.
Then he lets it fade and for a moment Peter's thoughts are still going in five different directions, blank surprise to holy shit, before his head kicks back into gear.
"Miles!" he nearly whoops—too loud in the small room, but he can't stop the grin from stretching over his face as the realization rushes through him like a wave, and he's not the only one. He can hear Gwen and Noir exclaiming in the background as he hops forward to snag Miles by the arms, tugging him into a slight spin. "You did it!"
Miles' eyes had flown wide at his reaction, but now he's grinning, letting Peter swing him. "I can do both of 'em, look—"
And he flickers out of sight, just the slightest wave of distortion where Peter's hands are still in contact. He comes back into view a second later, still looking up at Peter—chin up with a little well earned pride, sure, but maybe just a little bit hopeful too. Of course he is, after last night, and so Peter lets out an incoherent noise that honestly describes what he's feeling rather well and hugs him, twirling him again at the same time until Miles is giggling under his arm.
He'd had it in his mind as possible, that Miles might make it this far, this fast, but he has to admit, he'd kind of stopped expecting it to happen. Well, that'll teach him, and he's never been so happy to be wrong. He's ecstatic.
Is this what it's like, having kids? Because if it is—
"Good job, Miles," he says, trying to focus past the unfamiliar swell of his heart, because Miles has most definitely earned that much. "I'm proud of you."
Miles fairly glows at the words—figuratively, this time—and it's kind of sobering just how much Peter's opinion seems to mean to him after only a few days. Miles turns serious again almost immediately, though, pushing a little away to meet Peter's eyes properly.
"I know how dangerous this is, even with these powers," Miles says, carefully measured in a way that makes him sound older than he is, "but I can do this. And you need me."
Peter hesitates.
He can't even really say why, this time. Miles has his powers in hand, now—not much experience fighting, maybe, but invisibility can make up for a lot of limitations there. He's about as well prepared as Peter had been at sixteen, maybe even better, and for all that Peter's idea of too young has shifted in proportion to his own age, he's not that much of a hypocrite.
Maybe it's not Miles. Maybe it's him. Had he settled so quickly on the idea of staying? He hadn't thought so, but…
"You shouldn't have to," he says instead of following that thought, frustrated when it comes out as exactly the sort of useless platitude he would have scoffed at as a teen. "You don't have to, you know that, right?"
But Miles just looks at him, expression a little exasperated like he thinks Peter's being ridiculous. Rude.
"Yes, I do," he says, staring Peter down with an unfamiliar sort of calm, and Peter knows then that he's not winning this fight. Maybe Miles can read it on him, because he relaxes just a little, softening back into something that's almost his usual smile. "I'll be fine, Peter, seriously. Besides, I've got backup now, if I need it."
Which is when Peter remembers that Prowler's standing right next to him and has been the whole time, listening to their emotional little powwow. He glances over warily, but Prowler hasn't moved from his slouch against the wall. He flicks his attention over to Peter briefly, but his focus seems to be mostly on Miles, and with that quiet warmth in his eyes again, his demeanor is just about the furthest thing from threatening.
"You sure about that?" Peter grouses anyway, because this still goes against what little common sense he's managed to build up over the years. Miles just looks over at Prowler and smiles, small and fond, like it's an instinctive response to the expression he finds, and fine. Fine. Maybe there's a chance this won't end in tears. Peter knows when he's beat, either way.
"I'm sure," Miles says, and Peter sighs, just shaking his head when Prowler looks in his direction like he's waiting for the next argument. It's not like he wants Miles to lose family anyway, not if there really is a chance to keep Prowler on side.
No one else in the room seems set to argue either when Peter glances over their way. Gwen's sitting on the table, legs swinging, watching the proceedings solemnly, and Noir's leaning on the back of a chair, all that violent readiness dialed down at some point in the last few minutes.
Aunt May just raises an eyebrow when Peter looks at her, like she's just been waiting for him to come to the right conclusion, and it finally occurs to him to wonder: is this what it had been like for her, even a fraction? Knowing the dangers and having to let him go anyway, because he wouldn't allow anything else?
It settles in his gut like a rock. But he's years too late for an apology, and now just isn't the time.
"Fine. You're in, then," he groans, loud and gusty as he gives in. "But if—"
He doesn't get to finish his dire warnings of doom and gloom because Miles darts back in and hugs him, wiry arms and spider strength squeezing all the breath out of Peter's lungs. That's his story and he's sticking to it.
"Yeah yeah," he grumbles, trying to sound utterly put upon, though of course then he hugs Miles back and that ruins it right off. Why does he even bother. "Love you too, kid."
The back door creaks open then, which is probably lucky, because Peter's basically dragging them straight towards maudlin, and both he and Miles straighten up to look. Porker wanders in, seems to read the room in one curious glance, and then shrugs and heads back for the food.
Peni pokes her head in after, peeking around the door jam from the outside, one of her bot's glowing eyes leaning in over her head with a whole lot less subtlety.
She blinks, maybe because the whole room is now looking at her, and then explains, "I'm not done yet, I just wanted to see. I thought maybe Peter was pranking me."
"I would never," Porker mumbles around a mouthful of food, but Peni and Prowler are busy examining each other with a mutual sort of dubiousness that now kind of makes Peter want to snicker. What does Peni's Prowler look like, anyways? Or worse, what about Porker's?
"How long do you think you need, Peni?" Aunt May asks her calmly, and Peni finally turns away with only a slightly doubtful look, probably confident enough in the fact that no one else in the kitchen is all that worried anymore.
"Gimme an hour," she says stoutly, and then ducks out before anyone can say anything else about it.
"Well, there we have it," Aunt May says, looking after her with raised brows, and Peter glances over at everyone else. They don't really have anything else to prepare, though—at this point, it's a waiting game.
The others seem to realize it too, and low conversations start to spring up again. Noir's quietly filling Porker in on what he missed, from what Peter can hear. Prowler hasn't budged from his spot, but Miles had wandered over to the table while Peter had been distracted, and Gwen's holding the last bagel out to him, murmuring low enough that Peter would have to work to eavesdrop.
Miles smiles like she'd offered him the moon and then fumbles, almost dropping the bagel before managing to chomp into it. Peter hears the slightest, softest noise from Prowler's direction and looks over just in time to meet his eyes. It's a split-second glance, but Peter's pretty sure they're both wearing the exact same expression—a sudden, unexpected flash of fellow feeling.
Well, they're allies now, apparently. It's allowed. And Peter should probably start calling him Aaron, shouldn't he. Hey, might even be able to annoy him with it.
"I'll take this down to Peni, since she didn't quite get the chance," Aunt May says, gathering up the set-aside food, and Miles twists around like he'd remembered something, breaking away from Gwen.
"Before you go, Mrs. Parker," he says, and Peter just knows he'll have a standing invitation with her after all of this is over by the way she smiles at him.
"Yes, Miles?"
Miles fiddles with the scarf around his neck and then draws himself up tall. "I have a favor to ask."