Splash.
Water as cold as ice soaked him, dragging him mercilessly awake. Opening his eyes didn't help: the pitch black disoriented him more as he sunk ever faster down, precious air escaping from reach.
He tugged uselessly at his bound arms and legs as the water got under his mask and into his oxygen supply. He gasped in the last of the stored air before swallowing a mouth full of water.
Panic swept over him. With a burst of desperate strength, the ropes around his arms snapped. He reached up and realized he was surrounded by fabric - a bag, probably. He flailed around for the zip, but his numb fingers refused to latch on to anything.
Catching an edge, he tried to tear it open but it wouldn't rip. He grabbed it with his other hand, clenching his teeth as his fingers cramped. Already his muscles were seizing up in the bitterly cold water. He latched on and tugged as hard as he could, ripping a hole that revealed moonlight glimmering through the murky water.
He kicked the hole wider and flailed to get out. As he cleared it, his feet caught on the rapidly sinking bag - was it weighed down? The material was heavy and waterlogged, and he was helpless to escape as it dragged him down…
Down…
Down …
Darkness edged his vision as his lungs cried out for the unreachable air above him.
He had no energy. He was in so much pain. His limbs were cold and stiff. Every movement sapped his strength.
His feet hit the sludge, muck disturbed and rising around him. It further confused his waning mind. Yet he could feel calmness, peace, begin to wash over him.
Would it be so bad? To die here?
I tried my hardest.
Maybe it would be okay to succumb to the waves…
His thoughts flashed to Fisk, standing above him, grinning like a shark as he made his worst nightmare come true. He had played Miles like a fiddle, knowing there was nothing he could do but watch as he murdered everyone he loved.
Smiling with joy as he watched Mrs. Parker, Mom and Dad try so hard to survive. Seeing him, beaten and bruised and used .
No…
No, not like this! Not when Fisk had to pay!
He grabbed for his legs, reaching down despite every instinct screaming at him to just go up . Barely able to feel his fingers, he undid the knots holding the rope together around his legs. He yanked them off.
With one last boost, one last desperate attempt, he pushed himself off the sea floor. He reached for the sky beyond the sea, swimming with all his rapidly waning strength.
His head breached the surface, the world greeting him with an overwhelming mix of noise and sound. The neon landscape of New York was alive. He gulped down air like a starving man, barely able to breathe past his soaked mask.
Still reeling, vision fuzzy around the edge, he weakly swam over to the closest pier. He gripped onto it in an attempt to keep himself from sinking again. He was dizzy with air, or from the blood staining the water around him.
He leaned his head against the wood, trying not to think, just trying to breathe , to recover. Every breath billowed into the world in a puff of mist, reminding him of how cold he was. Shivers wracked his body, growing increasingly disruptive.
He glanced up at the moon, the thing that had anchored him to the world, and watched as it began to disappear under the horizon.
In twelve hours everything had changed. Yesterday he had been preparing to face Kraven, wondering what would happen and if he would survive the encounter. But he had faced him knowing it would protect his family.
Turns out it didn't matter. He had played himself.
They were dead and it was his fault.
His breath hitched, a warm tear seeping into his mask. It was a sharp contrast against the wet, stiff fabric that chilled to the bone.
Attempts to blink away his tears proved useless. They kept coming like a breaking dam, an unstoppable river. Their faces swirled in his head like a whirlpool - the look as they realized they were going to die. Suffocated by sand.
A sob broke through, shaking his entire body. It was all his fault. He was so stupid. So, so stupid, and now here he was. Half-dead and half-drowned. And they were dead. He had gambled their lives with a bitter enemy and now they were dead.
They were dead and he had no one else to blame but himself.
Sobs wracked his body, jostling his injuries and bringing them back to life as the adrenaline faded. He deserved it. Maybe it was better to let himself succumb to the sea. At least then he could look them all in the eye and tell them how sorry he was.
It was exhaustion more than anything that had his sobs petering out. Almost reluctantly, he began looking for a way out, knowing he truly would succumb if he didn't get out of the water.
He couldn't die yet. He could just imagine the scolding he would get, wherever they were, if he gave up without a fight. Especially when the man responsible was strutting around like the king of New York.
I can't bring them back , he resolved, but I can make that bastard pay .
There was no boat ramp, no ladders, only the wooden supports holding the pier up. He reached up, clenching his eyes shut as his shoulder tensed up and sent agonizing, burning pain through him. He swallowed the bile building in his throat, refusing to stop.
He reached up again, his legs coming out of the lapping waves. He tried to use them as leverage, but his left leg gave out as pain like a scalding iron enwrapped his whole leg. He gasped out, tears flooding his vision.
He was forced to rest, cheek pressed against the wood. He wanted so badly to give up. To just let go and rest.
But he couldn't.
He had to get out of the water.
With shaking limbs he reached up again, managing to grip onto the railing of the pier. He reached up with his other hand, latching onto the walkway, and pulled himself up.
Solid ground under him, he collapsed.
As the morning sun finally greeted him, rays of light blanketing him, he was helpless to stop his exhaustion from catching up to him. Between one blink and the next, he was out cold.
A hand on his chest stirred him, but not enough for him to do more than moan in agony.
There was a voice, calling his name, but his spider-sense was quiet. He didn't have a reason to wake. He drifted back into unconsciousness as he was lifted up, head lolling into their chest.
The sounds of distant, muffled traffic drifted into his senses first.
Miles blinked once, twice, struggling to keep himself awake. His fingers twitched, curling into themselves. His head tipped to the side. He absently noted the multi-colored window and the neon billboard outside, advertising some beer brand.
Every breath felt heavy, like someone had put a weight on his chest. He tried to anchor himself on his right elbow to get up, but inhaled sharply and gave up when sharp, biting pain shot up his shoulder.
He reached down, finding the edge of a fluffy, warm blanket on him. His eyes shot up and he forced himself to sit up despite the pain. He wasn't on the pier. He wasn't in a hospital. He wasn't in a prison cell.
He was on a cracking leather couch in a dingy, dark apartment. His Spider-Man suit was gone, replaced with an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. He pulled the sleeve down, breathing easier when he discovered that his webshooters were still on.
Pulling the hoodie up, he found his chest wrapped up in a tight layer of bandages. Same thing for his shoulder. His forehead and cheek had Band-Aids on them, and his left leg was wrapped at the thigh and casted at the shin. He was littered with wounds, but someone had taken the time to care for each of them.
He allowed himself to lean back against the cushions. Wherever he was, they had taken care of him. He just hoped they had good intentions for him.
His eyes began to slip shut again, willing himself to just not think, when the sound of a cupboard door closing brought his attention back. A man walked into view and placed a glass of water and a pill down on the coffee table.
Miles watched him warily, fingers ready on his webshooter, but all the man did was look down at him and say, "For the pain."
And he left. The man walked away like he didn't have a fifteen-year-old heavily injured on his couch - like this was somehow normal. He exited the apartment to go wherever it was he wanted, because Spider-Man on his couch wasn't a big deal.
After a long moment, he looked back at the water, eyeing it, trying to determine how badly he wanted it. It could be a trap. It could be poisoned, or drugged, or-
His lips were dry and his mouth was completely parched. Probably made worse from the salt water he had swallowed in his panic to survive.
He reluctantly leaned over, grabbed the water, and sniffed it like that would somehow prove it was safe. It didn't make him feel any better. He took a sip, waiting to see if it had some effect on him, and when it didn't he gulped the rest down.
Putting the glass back down, he glanced at the little white pill and pushed it away. If this guy thought he would trust him, he was sorely mistaken.
He laid back down again, bringing the blanket up to his chin with his good hand. Sleep easily dragged him down into dreamless, black sleep.
Sunlight warmed his body, slowly waking him and pulling him into reality. He tilted his head to the side, looking out the windows again. The billboard was still there. He glanced out the window further to the left, finding a vaguely familiar landscape. After a long moment, he realized what part of New York he was in - Hell's Kitchen.
The sound of shoes on tiled floor behind him drew his attention. He closed his eyes, pulling the blanket up higher. He didn't want to face this man. Didn't want to have to find some way to pay him back before leaving. He wanted to pretend like he hadn't killed his whole family and almost drowned, and live in a reality where everything was okay.
The man moved into the light, blocking the warm sunshine draping over him. There was the sound of clinking, two sets of something being placed down and then squeaking as the coffee table was moved closer to the couch.
Miles reluctantly opened his eyes, gaze catching on a white bowl and glass of water. He could see steam rising from the bowl, a deliciously rich smell wafting over to him.
"Eat," the man said. He finally looked up at him to study him properly. He was a man in his mid-thirties, dressed up in a suit and tie. He had a light beard and a wonky nose - like had been punched one too many times. Red-lensed, round glasses prevented Miles from looking him in the eyes. "You need it."
A spoon was placed down next to the bowl and the man walked away again. When Miles felt he was far enough away he carefully began to sit up, keeping his weight off of his shoulder. He began to reach for the spoon but then realized what was in the bowl.
It was a creamy soup of some kind, it looked fine - but it had small lumps in it, bobbing at the surface. He froze. No, no he wouldn't fall for this. He wouldn't let whoever this was drug him and hand him over to Fisk.
He laid back down, pulling the blanket up and over his head. As much as his stomach grumbled in protest, he would get over it quickly. He had done it before, he could do it again.
Footsteps walked into the room and he heard a sigh. Despite himself, he flinched, curling into himself.
"You have to eat: you've had nothing for days. You won't heal," the man told him.
Miles shook his head. "It doesn't matter anyway," he croaked. His own voice startled him, unfamiliar. His windpipe must have been hurt more than he thought.
The standstill stretched in the uncomfortable silence, eventually broken as the man seemingly gave up and walked into the kitchen behind him. He let himself untense, but not relax, ready to make things difficult if he tried to drag him away or, or something .
He heard the familiar sound of a drawer opening, cutlery clinking. Footsteps came back over and he peeked out of the blanket. Metal clinked against ceramic, and he watched with wide eyes as the man served himself a spoonful of the soup. Without hesitation he ate it, lumps and all, before putting the spoon down on the coffee table and walking away.
Miles tracked him with his eyes, watching as he picked up a briefcase and walked out of sight. There was the sound of a door opening, closing, and being locked.
He finally sat up, unbundling his legs from the blanket and putting his feet down on the ground. He picked up the bowl, situating it on his lap, and, with a moment of hesitation, began eating it.
Each bite reminded him of just how hungry he was after having nothing for who knows how long. Before he knew it, he was scraping at the last of it. He picked up the glass of water, sniffed it just to be sure, and that was gone in seconds too.
He put it back down, the ache from his stomach finally appeased, and leaned back. He let himself soak in the sun, closing his eyes for a moment to bask in it.
Down in May's spider lair, their bodies would never again feel the warmth of sunshine…
His breath hitched, a stray tear falling down his cheek and dissolving on a plaster. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to get rid of the gathering tears. He didn't want to think about them. He couldn't stop thinking about them.
He wanted to focus on avenging them, but the thought just made him feel… cold .
He had barely stopped him the first time, at the collider. He hadn't stopped him this time, with all the experience he had gained as Spider-Man. How could he possibly face him again, with no tricks to back him up, and win?
Sure, he had beaten Owl. But that was cold comfort. Fisk had probably integrated Owl's empire into his own by now, taking all the research and artificially super-powered people with him. He hadn't made New York safer. All his efforts to get rid of the program that had kidnapped him had been for naught.
He was probably the worst Spider-Man around.
He brought his legs back onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around him. First the Peter of his world, then Uncle Aaron, and now in one swift motion, Mrs. Parker, Mom and Dad. All killed by Fisk, all preventable. He had killed the Parker and Morales family. He was a curse.
He was the worst.
When he woke next, still sitting upright on the couch, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. The agony of his fresh wounds had begun to fade, though the background pulsing noise of pain was still strong.
He realized a moment later what had disturbed him, as he heard footsteps walk in behind him. He whipped around, regretting it as his vision spun, only to find it was just the man.
The man paused. His head was angled in such a way Miles was sure he was looking past him. "Evening," he greeted, putting the briefcase down and moving into the kitchen.
"Um, hi," he eventually greeted, looking down at his hands. The scarred lines from the facility caught his eye, and he quickly looked back out the window.
He heard the man bustling around the kitchen, putting something on the stovetop and turning it on. Two bowls were put on the counter, followed by two glasses. Miles sat staring out the window but listened intently to what was happening behind him.
The paranoia of the food being tampered with, that all this was a lie, ate at him. He knew, logically, that no one would put in the effort of healing him, feeding him, making sure he was going to live, just to then hand him over to someone who would kill him.
Logically, he knew he had no reason to worry. Instinctually, he was terrified of being wrong.
It wasn't long before the man was setting down a bowl of soup in front of him, freshly heated up, a piece of toast on a plate beside it with a glass of water. The man sat on the couch adjacent to Miles, digging into his own bowl.
Shaking the weariness away, he picked up his bowl and began to eat too. He hadn't heard his food get tampered with, or containers being opened, or anything of the sort. The man was eating from the same batch of soup as he was. It was… safe.
The man let the silence hold, filled only with the muffled sounds of New York's nightlife, the clinking of metal spoons against ceramic. Miles felt too uneasy to break it, too raw.
When everything was devoured, the man went about collecting it all up again and placing it in the sink. He heard him pull something out from under the sink and walk back around. He was holding a med kit fit for a small army.
Miles frowned, the detail catching his attention. Something about it itched at him, like he wasn't connecting dots he should.
"I've left it long enough," the man began, opening the med kit and pulling out various items, "but I do need to redress your wounds."
Miles opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, and quietly asked, "Why are you helping me?"
That caused him to pause, looking up at Miles. His eyes finally seemed to focus on him, face pinching into a frown. Then it smoothed out, a small smile - no, smirk - growing on his face. "You haven't figured out who I am?"
"Should I have?" Miles snapped, harsher than he intended.
The man put his hand out in a placating gesture, "No." He offered his hand for a handshake. "I'm Matt Murdock, attorney at law. I'm also Daredevil."
Oh. That's why he would have such a well-stocked med kit. He gingerly accepted the shake, heat warming his cheeks. "Miles Morales, Spider-Man."
He went back to bringing out some large plasters and bandages, cutting them to size. Miles took a deep breath, looking back down at his lap. "Thank you. For saving me. Three times now."
"I'm not keeping track," The man - Daredevil - Matt said lightly. "We'll start with your forehead wound."
Miles reached for the bandage, fiddling with it trying to catch a loose edge, before managing to peel it off. He resisted the urge to feel the wound and understand how bad it really was, despite his curiosity. Matt was quick to wipe it down with some antiseptic-soaked cotton balls, cleaning it, before replacing the bandage with a new one.
"You were right," Miles admitted quietly. Matt made a small hmm? noise, encouraging him to go on. "That - that I wasn't ready to face these threats." His breath hitched, but he managed to still himself before he could start crying.
It was only when the wound on his cheek had a new bandage on it that Matt finally replied. "You weren't. I should have helped you out more."
Miles frowned, looking at him in complete bafflement. "What? I was the one who- who charged into danger. How is that your fault?"
"You're fifteen," he said, like that answered anything. It did not.
They didn't say much as Matt quickly and efficiently changed the wrappings around his chest, except to remark that his rib was healing well. It was only when he was working on his shoulder that he had built up enough courage to ask, "What's happened… since Kravinoff?"
Matt's fingers paused in wrapping his shoulder, and when he started up again, it was more hesitant.
"It was a few hours before the fighting ended. The public doesn't understand where all the fighting came from, or why it ended. With no real answers, and only one superhero who was in a visible fight before New York turned to chaos…"
"They're talking about me," Miles summarized numbly.
"Yes. It doesn't help that you're the successor of one of New York's most beloved superheroes. Or that you just had your secret identity revealed," Matt explained, leaning back as he had finished wrapping his shoulder. "Or that you haven't been seen since, nor have your parents."
His breath hitched, tears streaming down his face before he could stop them. They really were gone. He really had killed them. He roughly rubbed them away, grimacing as he disturbed the wound on his cheek. The one he got when Fisk knocked him out.
"They- Fisk…" he tried to explain, struggling to keep himself together, "Sandman, he suffocated them. I was- I had to- to watch. I couldn't do anything -"
Matt abandoned treating his thigh and put a comforting hand on his knee. Miles covered his mouth, turning his face away as he tried to cobble together any semblance of dignity he had left.
"You can stay here as long as you need," Matt said solemnly. "No one knows you're here, no one saw you on the pier, you're safe. You have time to decide what you want to do."
Miles sucked in a breath, paused, and slowly let it out. "I want him- him dead ," he spat out. "He's taken e-every- everything from me."
Matt went back to treating the puncture marks on his thigh. As Miles sniffled miserably, trying desperately to pull together the broken parts of himself, Matt seemed drawn into his own thoughts.
"Your life will be different," he admits, seeming to struggle for the right words. "Miles Morales will be a public figure, regardless if you keep the suit on or not. There will be a lot of questions for you. There will be a time before this, and a time after. Right now, you're in a moment where you get to decide what you will be. You can make the important decisions while you recover."
Miles studied Matt's face, the sincerity, the concern, as he finished treating Miles. He began to gather everything back together in the organized chaos that was his med kit.
"I don't know what to do," Miles admitted. "I don't know what to be."
"Yourself is fine." Matt finally looked him in the face as he stood up straight. "You'll get through this. You're not alone."
He hesitated, eyes straying to look out the window. At the tall buildings, the glimmering lights.
Fisk was out there somewhere, basking in the knowledge that he had won. "I think… I'd like to repair my suit."
Miles's fingers ached after a day of methodical stitching.
It was a good ache, one he welcomed. One that was all his own.
His costume wasn't picture-perfect, the spots where his costume had been torn were fairly obvious. The fabric Matt had was different from the black Mrs. Parker had, but it blended in well enough. The suit was ready to go.
He would have to learn how to make his own suit on his own, and wasn't that a punch to the gut? He had learned how to fix the suit so he wasn't visiting Mrs Parker after every single fight but he had never done it from scratch. He didn't even know how she had reinforced the costume.
When his suit was done, he went and grabbed his webshooter. He had ended up using up four cartridges last time, having completely used up one on Taskmaster. He didn't regret that - Taskmaster had more than proven himself capable of taking him down.
He had enough web fluid for round two, and that's all that really mattered. He would have preferred a full stock - but he had never really learned how to make it. Ganke had. Ganke had always been better at Chemistry than him.
Was Ganke still alive? It was impossible for him to know, and a part of him wanted to shrink away from finding out. Schrödinger's cat. Plausible deniability.
Miles had sat by the window - people-watching to kill time. Matt didn't have a TV for him to help the time pass quicker. He watched, a bitter feeling blooming in his chest, a family eating ice cream on the street corner. How the boy was so carefree, smiling and laughing with his parents.
Miles tipped his head to rest against the cold glass. He resigned himself to some basic small talk as Matt got home - how was your day? Fine. Have any wounds reopened? No. How was work? Fine. He absently listened to Matt putting his stuff down and going into the kitchen. He heard the ruffling of Matt's shirt as he rolled his sleeves up.
He couldn't help his thoughts drifting, stuck on the family. Stuck on his family. "It will only be a few days before I'm fully healed," Miles began, fingers absently stroking over the scar on his left hand. The skin was still raised and lighter than the surrounding skin.
Matt paused from chopping some vegetables but didn't comment.
"I need Fisk dead," he finished, glancing over at Matt.
Matt continued with the vegetables, not looking up at him. "He almost killed you once-"
"Twice, technically."
"-he'll kill you if you try again."
Miles buried the indignant feeling of his abilities being questioned, eyes straying to the window. "My family's dead," he finally replied. "What more could he take?"
That had Matt putting down his knife, eyebrows furrowed as he looked in his general direction. "You're grieving. You are fifteen years old. You have the rest of your life to live. Don't waste it on revenge."
"I got my whole family killed, you don't understand," Miles snapped, bringing his knees up to his chest. "They drowned in sand. Sand! All because of Fisk and how I stupidly trusted him to keep his word. I killed them. He killed them. I can't live with myself if he's still here."
The silence stretched out between them.
"He only beat me because… because he had his hand on the 'trigger'," Miles grumbled, blinking the memory of that moment away. "I fought him when I was new, when I knew nothing. I can do it again. I can win."
Matt slowly walked out of the kitchen and to the couch, sitting down. He seemed to give Miles an assessing look, but Miles stubbornly just stared straight ahead.
"...If this is what you really want, I'll help you. Fisk does need to be taken down. But only when you've healed up completely."
That was reasonable, that was fair. He leaned back, finally looking across at Matt. "Ok."
By evening of the next day, with no rest to catch up on and no media to consume, nothing to do but wait… Miles was bored out of his mind.
Matt helped him get off his makeshift cast that night, and Miles was now able to get around with only a barely noticeable limp. His shoulder and thigh were healed, his forehead was only a scar, and his cheek still was bruised - but looked two weeks old. Really, all that was left to heal were his ribs, which still ached when he bent over.
Flexibility was basically a requirement of being Spider-Man, so he begrudgingly agreed to wait for that to heal too. The boredom, though, was a more pressing issue.
Convincing Matt to let him go get his backpack - the one that had been patiently waiting for him since Kravinoff - was the hardest part.
"No."
"I'll cover my face. There are millions of New Yorkers and only one me. No one will figure it out," Miles argued. "I will literally start walking on these walls I'm so bored. Someone will definitely notice that . The old lady across the street has been watching your apartment with her binoculars, you know that?"
Matt pursed his lips, brows furrowed. "What happens if they notice you?"
"They- they won't. I can just turn invisible. It'll be fine - no one will know. Besides, I have to know what's happening. What- what I'll be walking into." Miles stood up from the couch, giving in to the urge to restlessly pace.
He paused, looking out the window. He took a deep, grounding breath, turning to Matt. "I have to know if my friend is okay. He's… he's all I have left. Fisk killed- killed everyone else. I don't know if he's safe."
Of all the things he had said, all the reassurances he had given, that was the thing that finally had Matt giving him the go-ahead.
Wrapped in an oversized hoodie, a red scarf wrapped around his face up to his nose, he blended in fairly well. He was glad it was fall - no one would blink an eye at a tourist wrapped in so much.
He swayed with the moving train cart, lightly holding on to the nearest pole. It was quiet for a Monday, but it was one pm. The lunch rush had ended and the school rush was yet to begin. The train cart he was on had maybe ten people.
He couldn't stop his eyes from darting around nervously, cataloging each person as they got on and off the train. He tried to be discreet about it, to limited success when he made eye contact with an old man three separate times.
Only a thin piece of fabric protected his now-known identity from revealing his unknown location. He had to be careful.
At the next stop, a small handful of people got on. Including a little girl, no older than eight, her hair up in tight pigtails. She was in a puffy purple jacket and black pants, tightly holding her mom's hand. The girl had the wide-eyed wonder and nervousness of someone who wasn't used to traveling this way.
As her mom sat down, putting the girl on her lap, he could feel her eyes boring into him.
Their eyes met. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, before remembering she couldn't see it. He gave her a small nod instead, the scarf slipping off his nose before he quickly put it back up.
Even without his identity, there was no need to reveal the bruise on his cheek.
Her eyes lit up, her mouth opening in awe.
Oh no.
"Spider-Man!" she gasped out, loud enough for a few people to look his way.
He quickly looked away from her, pulling his scarf up more firmly, but it slipped back down his face. He looked up, met the eye of the old man - now assessing him with an inquisitive look, and darted his eyes down to the floor.
"You're Spider-Man!" the little girl declared, her mom quietly trying to shush her. "I've seen your face on the news!"
He shook his head, his spider-sense whispering to him that people were watching him. "Nope, don't know what you're talking about," he protested, tugging the hood further down like that would make any difference. Kravinoff had screwed him - everyone, everyone knew who he was.
"Mommy said you got hurt!" the little girl continued on. "And he got hurt on his forehead, just like you! You've got a scar on your forehead."
He clenched his eyes shut, fighting the urge to go invisible. That would only confirm it. This was a mistake. A terrible, dumb mistake. He should have walked instead of taking the subway. At least then if someone got a glimpse of him he could flee.
"Spider-Man saved my husband a few months ago," a woman's voice said, her voice shattering the tense silence. He couldn't help but glance up, head turning to look at the speaker. It was a lady in light blue scrubs, her blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looked him in the eye as she continues, "If he hadn't been there to get him out of the way of that runaway car, he would have probably died. Thank you."
"I'm- I'm not-" he tried to stutter out, but was interrupted as a man in casual clothes spoke up.
"I was walking home from work," the man began. Miles's scarf had fallen off of his face, pooling around his neck. He didn't bother to fix it. "Two drunk guys stepped out of an alleyway and tried to mug me. They were bigger than me. One of them swung at me, but Spider-Man caught it like it was nothing. Like it was easy. Sent them on their way before leaving. Thank you."
Miles's mouth hung open, stuttered protests reduced to nothing in his throat. His cheeks had warmed up and his knees felt so weak he might have to sit down.
The mother of the small girl spoke up, a bittersweet look on her face. "I was loading my groceries into my car, I thought she was just by my side. I heard a scream and- and screeching tires. I heard this thump. I thought she had been hit by a car, all because I wasn't paying attention." Her eyes bore into his, leaving him with no choice but to meet her gaze. "It was you. You had stepped in front of the car, Katie here in your arms. You had taken the full brunt of the car's impact. You saved her."
He looked down at the girl, Katie, the one who had figured him out. She still had a starry-eyed look in her eyes. He didn't recognize her, though that wasn't too surprising with how many people he had saved. But she knew him. She… idolized him.
He let himself survey the cart of people, all openly staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to take a slow, grounding breath. He let himself rub at the back of his neck, a nervous tick that cost him the hoodie falling off his head.
"It's- I- I'm just happy. To have helped you guys," he managed to get out. He swallowed, taking another big breath in. "But- but I'm not… I'm not safe yet. I need you all to keep… quiet about me."
He heard the pole creak in protest beside him, crunching in as his strength slipped. An ironic smile twisted his features. "I'm still recovering. I can't face anyone yet, I'm not strong enough."
His spider-sense whispered a warning and he glanced up, narrowing in on a teenager with their phone out. A flare of anger had him webbing the phone's camera, obscuring its view of him. "And that? That is what will get me killed right now," he snapped, all the warm fuzzy feelings evaporated. "If he knows I'm alive, he'll finish what he started."
A tug on his jacket startles him out of it. It's the little girl. "But you're Spider-Man. You always get back up."
He crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet easily. He took a small breath and extended his fist towards her. "Sure. I'll- I'll try." She fist-bumped him back, a delighted smile on her face.
Maybe, maybe if being Spider-Man meant little girls like her looking up at him with so much hope… maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to be known. But right now, his safety was balanced in the hands of these strangers. He didn't trust them. He couldn't.
As the next stop approached, he pulled his hoodie back up and wrapped the scarf back around his face. He glanced around at the small group, nodding at the nurse, the man from the mugging, and the little girl's Mom.
It wasn't his stop, but he stepped out as soon as the doors opened. He would walk from here.
He hoisted himself over the ledge, a weight easing off his shoulders as he spotted his backpack. It had fallen to the ground, the webs that had kept it in the air long since dissolved into nothing, but otherwise it was intact.
Miles crouched down beside it, unzipping it. It tried to overflow with the bandages and pills and all the medical supplies in it. Definitely his backpack. His eyes stung as he zipped it back shut, reached into the front pocket, and pulled his phone out.
He took a deep breath, clutching it to his chest for a moment, before holding down the on button to turn it on from being completely switched off. Miles glanced back at the Manhattan skyline, overwhelmed by nerves twisting his stomach in knots.
He knew when his phone was back on.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
Miles scrambled into his settings, barely even glancing at the messages constantly going off in his quest to shut off all his notifications. Once he had, he slumped back down, hanging his head.
This was his life now. Social media popularity had always seemed… cool. But this? Becoming popular not through his own merit but because of his secret pastime? Yeah, this was the worst.
Sucking it up, he finally went into his messages. The app was almost immediately unusable, even with notifications off. This was the worst. Officially the worst.
Miles resorted to the most direct method. The call rang once, twice, and then-
"Miles?" Ganke's voice cracked, heartbroken and wondrous all in the same word.
His vision went blurry, tears rendering him practically blind. "Ganke… you're alive."
"I am, I am, but Miles. Miles, I only found out you were alive twenty minutes ago. Why didn't you call me until now? I- I thought you were dead!" Ganke's voice wobbled on the last word, like just saying the word would jinx it.
His whole body went cold, his warmth sapped into the cold concrete ground he sat on.
"What do you mean twenty minutes ago?" Miles dared to whisper.
"You've gone viral. #SpiderManisAlive is trending on Twitter Miles. Everyone has seen you on that subway car."
That teenager . He should have broken their phone.
Fisk would be gearing up to track him down and probably try to kill him. He would be preparing to face Miles again. He had to go after him while he was still prepping. He would have to take every advantage he could get. Even if his ribs were still healing.
"Miles?" Ganke interrupted his train of thought.
"Shit. I have to go," he breathed out, ending the call despite Ganke's protests.
He took off the hoodie and jeans, haphazardly folding them and chucking them on top of the backpack. He was immensely grateful he had brought his suit with him - he hadn't thought he had needed it. But he had, just in case. Just to reassure Matt.
Right, Matt. He was more grateful than ever that he had memorized his phone number that morning.
"Miles?" Matt picked up his phone on the third ring. Maybe he had seen the news already.
"Have you seen the news?" Miles asked, hopping around as he chucked his shoes off.
"No."
He quickly brought him up to date: "- and now's the best time to go after him. Before he's ready for me. Time for round two."
"Miles, no. You're not fully healed," Matt protested.
"This isn't the first time I've fought injured. Just- if things go wrong, thank you," Miles took a deep breath, pulling his mask over his head. "I'll see you soon."
He hung up, put his phone back in the front pocket, and stuffed the backpack and his clothes back under the vent. He stepped up onto the ledge of the roof, quickly surveying the landscape. It should only take ten minutes max to get to Fisk, five if he swung quickly.
He stepped off, taking a few steps back. He shook his hands out, trying to rid the nerves in his system, and failing miserably. Time to make Fisk pay… and to stop him from experimenting on anyone else. That too.
Go time.
With a running start, he leapt off the side of the building. His first web attached and he swung low, building momentum into his next swing. He heard people's exclaimed sounds at seeing Spider-Man again, phones coming out to film him.
He had to ignore them and just focus on swinging.
Running along the side of a building, he pushed himself to run faster, swing quicker. He ignored the background noise of pain as his ribs protested his quick movements.
Fisk had to go down. He needed to get rid of him, permanently. He had gotten out of jail before and wrecked Miles's life. He couldn't allow him a second chance.
First the Peter Parker of this world. Then Uncle Aaron. Mom. Dad. Mrs Parker. All of them dead by his hand. Maybe Miles would die by it too. But he had to try. For them. For himself.
He twisted around the corner, the Fisk building finally in sight.
Time to make him pay.
Watch out!
Miles dropped his hold on the web, falling below a comically large fist. He arched his back, backflipped, and thwipped another web. It attached to a lamppost in time for him to jerk himself up, swinging around the pole to slow his momentum so he could neatly land on the lamppost.
Half the street was covered in a layer of sand, pouring out of an open manhole. People were screaming and fleeing, but all he could focus on was the man in front of him.
He had elevated himself to Miles's level with a pillar of sand. He had only articulated his body from the waist up, with no legs in sight. It wasn't like he needed to, it would be cosmetic at best.
He had a toothy, cocky grin on his face like this was Christmas and Miles was a ribbon-wrapped gift. He cracked his knuckles. "Hello, Spider-Man."
Fisk's lackey. His parents' murderer. Miles quivered in rage.
Fisk could wait. Fisk may have ordered it, but this man… this man was ultimately responsible for their deaths.
"You're going to pay for ever messing with my family, Sandman!"