Miles dove for Sandman, fist aimed for his face. In an explosion of sand, half his face was gone. But he was still smiling - grinning, even. Miles went to yank his hand back, but the hole closed up and reformed like nothing had happened.
Oh no.
"Fisk has had about enough of you, kid," Sandman said, his body shifting. Instead of Miles being caught around his face, he moved up so Miles's fist was in his chest instead. Miles brought his legs up, trying to put more force into escaping, but all it did was send jarring pain up his arm.
"If he had actually held-" he grunted in pain, losing his train of thought- "-held his end of the deal, I wouldn't have to go after him!"
Sandman began to move around him, sand pillaring up and creating a wall around him. His spider-sense started ringing in his ears, buzzing and disorientating as it grew increasingly insistent. He was being boxed in, the New York landscape disappearing from sight. "You and I both know that's a lie. You would have gone after his empire, regardless of any deals."
He wasn't wrong. "So, what now? What are you trying to do?"
A face appeared before him, just as the sand under his feet gave in and began swallowing them too. "I'll give you one out, kid. Pack your little onesie and get out of New York. Otherwise, I'll have to kill you."
Half his left arm had disappeared and the sand was halfway up his calves too. The sand kept on shifting in time with his movements, keeping him firmly trapped in place. His spider-sense offered no assurances either: Sandman meant his threat.
He was going to be suffocated to death. Sandman was offering him an out, but there was no way he could trust him. This was out of his pay scale, and there wasn't going to be a Daredevil to save him this time.
He needed more time to figure out how to escape.
"Why are those the only two options?" Miles asked, stalling. He forced himself to relax, no longer attempting to tug himself free.
Sandman gave him an inquisitive look. "I'm offering you the chance to leave New York out of mercy. Really, I'm meant to be killing you right now. Fisk's orders."
Fisk. It was always Fisk.
"What, so you expect me to walk away after you and him killed my family?" he exploded, the overwhelming grief loosening his tongue before he could restrain the outburst. He knew he had to try and keep a level head and think his way out but- "They were everything to me!"
"Killed? Kid, I mean, I tried-" The sand shifted, loosening as if Sandman was crumbling under guilt. He took the chance.
Bending backward, he shot a web at the ground with his one free arm. Wrapping it around his forearm in one smooth motion, he used it as an anchor point to drag himself out of the sand. Tucking his head in close, he hit the ground in a roll before springing back up and smashing through a weak point in the wall.
He took off running, preserving his webs. Racking his brain didn't provide any clues for how to beat him. He was being reckless, facing an enemy he didn't know how to take down. If he failed, he would be suffocated to death. No pressure.
It was a guy made out of sand - sand! No organs, no body to hit, only millions of tiny pieces of rock that had broken down over time.
He ducked around a corner and climbed up a building, scarcely looking back even as he heard a frustrated yell from Sandman and saw a car sail through the air, crashing on the street he had just been on. He was going the wrong way if he wanted to face Fisk, but Mr. Bodyguard over here wasn't going to let him get through.
Even if he did get through, if Sandman caught up to him as he was fighting Fisk… he couldn't let that happen. He wasn't much use as a dead Spider-Man.
One threat at a time. One murderer at a time.
He jumped over to the next rooftop, crouching by an air vent as he took in his surroundings. How could he beat sand? Heat, maybe. Or cold. But it wasn't cold enough for the water to freeze yet. Could he disrupt the bindings between the sand? But he didn't know what the binding was...
A pillar of sand grew in his peripheral vision, and he took off running again just as it smashed down, destroying the air vent.
How had the original Peter beaten Sandman? He racked his brain but came up with a blank. He would have to figure this out on his own.
Just as his hope for winning waned, he spotted a construction site. Concrete could harden, and if enough of Sandman hardened, he would be frozen in place.
He thwipped a web at a steel beam, diving into the labyrinth of half-constructed floors. He ducked behind a wall, but peeked back. Taking the small moment of reprieve, he tugged at the sleeve of his suit and sent a cascade of sand onto the ground. Bitterly, he knew he would be finding bits of sand for weeks.
Sandman reformed himself at the entrance of the construction site, glowering. Miles' eyes narrowed. "Spider-Man, I'm not an idiot. I've fought your predecessor. He did the same thing."
"No idea what you're talking about!" he called back, acting dumb. But it made him hesitate, terror choking him. He wasn't fighting a naive or overconfident supervillain. He was fighting an experienced, sane supervillain who had more experience under his belt than Miles did.
In a battle of brawn, Sandman would win, even with his spider-proportional strength. He couldn't talk him down, either. Sandman had offered him an out, and he had very obviously rejected it.
Outwitting Sandman was his only option, but he could hardly focus enough to make a plan when the swirling images of his parent's terrified faces clouded his mind's eye. That could be his fate… Sand filling his lungs, losing sight of the world in a cascade of debris. His small oxygen supply wouldn't save him.
Think. Come on, Spider-Man. Think.
He had already almost drowned once, not even a week ago. Somehow suffocation via water seemed less violent than at the hands of this guy.
Water.
If Sandman knew to avoid concrete, use something else. Use water. He wouldn't freeze, no, but it would create pathways for a venom strike to disrupt the bonds - whatever they were - between all his particles.
In the time he had been desperately figuring out a plan, Sandman had grown frustrated enough to pillar up, trying to spot where Miles was hiding without going into the construction site himself. Warring between the need to follow through on his deal with Fisk, and avoiding the humiliation of falling for a trap.
Camouflaging, he inched forward, crouching at the edge of the platform to survey the construction site. There were several concrete mixers scattered around, including one large truck that's barrel was still rotating. But that wasn't what he was looking for.
There had to be a water pipe here somewhere, the larger the better…
His concentration slipped in the search for his weapon of choice. It was all that Sandman needed to spot a faint outline of him. His spider-sense flared, but he failed to move before a fist the size of him had him flying across the construction site.
Slamming into a steel beam, stars in his eyes as his barely-healed ribs cracked once again, he fell to the ground floor in a heap of aching limbs.
"You really think I'm that dumb? You really think you're better than the original?" Sandman taunted. Barely lifting his head, he reached out a hand in protest like that would stop Sandman as he destroyed every single concrete mixer. The truck was caved in. A concrete mixer was hurled a block away. Another slammed into a steel beam where its contents leaked out.
Clutching his side, he forced himself to stand up. "No, I'm not. I'm not him."
In Sandman's frustrated revenge on concrete mixers, he had removed the top layer of soil from the construction site. Revealing what had been hidden before.
Sandman was right over what he needed to break. It would be a hail-mary attempt, but it was the best idea he had. It was the only idea he had.
Jutting his chin forward, he gritted his teeth. "You really should remember that."
Miles dived forward, a confused Sandman moving like a wave to avoid him, then surged forward to surround him as it avoided his 'blow'. He hadn't been aiming for Sandman at all.
He grabbed onto the largest pipe, the thrumming of water contained within the pipe proving his theory right.
His spider-sense throbbed, screaming at him to move.
All light disappeared, the seconds stretching out as Sandman went for the killing blow.
With all his might, he ripped a hole in the pipe, metal screeching its protest. Water gushed out in a current so strong it blew through layers upon layers of Sandman's ball of death.
Miles ducked down out of the way, getting drenched head to toe as the water finally came back down.
Standing back up in the cover of the waterfall, he watched in vicious satisfaction as Sandman struggled to reform under the weight of the moist sand.
"This won't stop me!" Sandman spat, a heavy fist finally formed.
Miles grinned, letting his grief fuel the pit of electricity in him. He let it grow, shaping it, keeping it locked beneath the surface of his skin. He put a foot back, centering himself, his own hands up in loose fists.
Tauntingly, he made a 'come hither' motion.
In a rage, Sandman threw a punch. It was sloppy, barely a blip on his spider-sense's radar.
It was what he wanted.
Twirling out of the way, he planted both hands on Sandman's forearm. Sandman's eyes widened, confusion and fear clouding them.
Electricity surged from his chest, down his arms, and through the palm of his hand. Pure energy ripped through Sandman's body, forcing Miles to clench his eyes shut against the blinding flash of light. The sand underneath his hand expanded outward before blowing him back in a loud boom.
He fell to the ground, shielding himself as splatters of wet sand rained down. One hit the lens of his right eye, restricting his vision.
Slowly sitting up, Miles wiped the blob of sand on his face off, examining it. It was completely normal, wet sand.
He had done it.
He had defeated Sandman.
A bubble of laughter had him doubled over, clutching his aching ribs. Fisk had tried to kill him, again, and he had won! Fisk had sent a freaking superpowered supervillain after him, and he had won!
Miles didn't let it delude him though. Sandman would reform. Electricity wouldn't keep him at bay forever. But it would give him the time he needed to track down his boss.
Fisk was next. Fisk was dead.
The glass shattered upon impact, littering the carpet like snow. Miles tucked and rolled, muting the force of his land, finishing in a low crouch.
Fisk slowly stood up, hulking body blocking out the light of the setting sun. A low growl rumbled in Miles's throat, whole body tensed like a bullet in a chamber. His eyes darted around, noting the gun laid out close to Fisk's hand. Ready for Fisk to grab.
"You're alive," Fisk stated. It wasn't surprise. It wasn't a question of how. It was a fact, one that Fisk had tried very hard to falsify, but yet here he remained.
Here he was for round three. Ready to avenge the murder of his parents. For Mrs. Parker. For Peter Parker. For Uncle Aaron. For the victim in the laboratory, and all those he hadn't seen. To avenge his secret identity, ripped from him without dignity. Fisk was the underlying cause of all of it, like poison in a well.
"I'm going to kill you," Miles snapped. It was a fact. A reality of the webs they had woven, tying them both to this moment. Before the new day dawned, it would be the truth.
Like a strike of lightning, he thwipped two webs. One hit the gun in a glob of hard web, flinging it into the corner of the room and out of reach. The second latched onto Fisk's shoe under the gap of his desk.
He yanked it, pulling Fisk's feet out from under him in an undignified slap of body against tiled floor.
He leapt forward, fist curled, aiming for the head, but Fisk grabbed him by the chest and threw him into the nearest wall. The cement cracked on impact, his vision whiting out in pain. He struggled to take a breath, puffing, arm curled protectively around his ribs. It allowed Fisk time to lumber to his feet.
Rolling up his sleeves in slow, practiced motions Fisk glowered at him. "I knew I should have just killed you myself. I thought I had. I should have never left it to a goon to dispose of you."
"Your mistake, you murderer!"
He thwipped webs on either side of Fisk, using them as anchors to kick Fisk straight into the ground. The floor cracked and gave way, sending them both plummeting down in a flurry of limbs.
Fisk barely seemed fazed by the fall, fist swinging for him. Miles used his thick body as a springboard, dodging out of the way with a back handspring.
He landed on the top of a desk, papers scattering to the floor.
Miles leapt back at Fisk, neatly dodging his outstretched leg and cracking him across the face. Blood spurted out of Fisk's broken nose, staining the white collar of his button-up shirt.
Fisk attempted to punch him again, but he twirled out of reach. Miles wrapped his arms around his hand, holding it in a bruising grip, gripped the floor, and twisted.
Snap.
Fisk let out a strangled cry of pain, blindly attempting to get Miles off of him.
Dodging the grasping hand, he stepped over Fisk's body - still holding onto his broken wrist - and threw him as hard as he could over his head and at the furthest wall.
His body smashed through several desks before hitting the elevator doors, barely avoiding falling down the shaft. It distantly reminded him of a bowling ball. Strike.
Miles took his time walking up to the prone, wheezing body of his nemesis, savoring the sight. "You thought you could use me. Chew me up and spit me out." Fisk struggled to his feet, using the crumpled metal of the doors as leverage to help himself. His left hand hung limply at his side, twisted at an odd angle. "I never wanted this!"
Fisk swung at him, his punch wild and wide. Easy to dodge. Ducking under it, Miles stepped into his own punch with all his strength. It threw Fisk back and into the elevator shaft, but he didn't let Fisk fall too far.
Miles webbed onto one of his legs, digging into the floor as Fisk's weight dragged him forward. He attached the web to the floor and jumped over to the opposite side of the shaft, crawling down to his level.
Terror and pain clouded Fisk's eyes as he looked between Miles, the fatal drop below, and the stationary elevator at the top. Death by an enemy, falling or crushing.
A realization struck him. Fisk had fought Peter, sure. He had fought Miles, too. But he wasn't used to prolonged pain.
He was used to being the winner of every fight. The man with the upper hand.
Fisk had never had to fight with a broken wrist, forced to compensate for a glaring weakness.
Miles was used to it. Bitterly. Struggling through the pain of starvation, thoughts fraying at the edges. Broken wrists, hindering the strength behind a punch. Fractured ribs, restricting every breath. Cuts and blood and aches and pain.
Pain had become an old friend, a friend he could compartmentalize. Ignore. Deal with it once the battle is over. Fisk didn't have his experience.
Fisk's face twisted into a sneer, though it lacked any real weight with the hilarious way he kept on slowly swinging back and forth. "You won't do it," he wheezed out, "you're just a stupid kid!"
"Yeah? Sending you to jail didn't do anything to stop you. Then you come back and kill my family." Miles straightened up, puffing his chest out. "You've tried to kill me, you tried to drown me. I have nothing to lose! You made sure of that!"
He rolled his shoulders, loosening up, "I can handle a bit of blood on my hands. I'm strong enough to lift trucks like they're nothing. Your skull will be easy to cave in."
He launched himself at Fisk, snapping the web and sending them both crashing into a new floor several stories down. Miles gripped onto his shoulders, jumping to his feet and sending Fisk over his head and into the floor. The floor cracked inwards.
Miles curled his hands into fists, a deadly blow aimed at Fisk's head. Fisk twisted his head away and it narrowly missed, but momentum carried it into the floor.
The linoleum tiles shattered under his strength, sending him and Fisk tumbling down. Fisk grabbed onto his leg in the split second he tried to hold onto the ceiling, dragging Miles down with him.
Fisks's lobby stretched out beneath them, the ten stories of empty space a deadly drop. He tried to pry Fisk's fingers off of him, but Fisk had the strength of a dead man falling.
A walkway five stories down proved Fisk's saving grace and Miles's undoing. Fisk smacked into the center of it, dragging Miles down hard onto the metal railings. All the air left his body as he collapsed to the floor.
His ribs kept on taking the beating, and he was sick of it.
Fisk wasn't much better though, still lying prone.
But he wasn't dead.
Miles blinked through the pain, using the caved-in railing to help him back to his feet. He took a step forward, hand curling back into a fist. Electricity danced up and down his arms, illuminating them both in the darkness.
The blue light must have alerted Fisk, as he looked up. He scrambled to get up, good hand slipping on the blood and debris littered around them, awkwardly crawling backward.
"Wait! Wait." Miles stopped, gritting his teeth. This ought to be good. "I can- can give you that scholarship-" oh he really was scared now- "-penthouse apartment,-" he finally understood that Miles wasn't playing- "-even a Lamborghini." Only one of them would be making it to tomorrow. "A-anything! Don't kill me."
Miles took a deep breath, barely flinching at the pain that it caused him. "You should have just followed through the first time."
He lifted a hand, gesturing to the wider room. "Instead, you decided to take everything from me."
Miles took another step forward, but Fisk didn't flinch away this time. Like he had accepted his fate. Through bloody lips, he grinned. "Ironic, isn't it? We're even."
They were, weren't they? Fisk had lost his family in a tragedy of his own making, funding and creating the collider just so he could have them back. Killing the original Spider-Man of this world in revenge. Then Miles got caught up in the whole mess, freshly bitten and running with the goober.
Miles had stopped the collider, destroying it with the help of Gwen, Peter B., Peni, Porker, and Noir. Fisk had gone to jail but had plotted his return. Played his cards right. Using Miles for his own means before killing Miles's family too.
Round and round in circles they went. Circles they would continue to spin in, webs weaving and crossing and tangling them both. The cycle would continue until all that would be left was the husks of who they once were.
He was a husk of what he wanted to be.
Here he was, battered and bruised, determined to kill for revenge. Tunnel visioned in the pursuit of proving a point, but even he didn't know what the point was anymore.
This wouldn't bring them back.
Their bodies still waited in a lonely street in Queens, cold and lifeless for him to bury six feet under. Killing Fisk wouldn't magically return the breath to their lungs, the warmth to their bodies, the blood to their hearts.
He would still be a fifteen-year-old orphan, scarred and alone with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. The expectations of a city that knew his name, his face, and the tragedy his life was becoming.
The eyes of New York would coldly weigh him for all his sins. The furious and broken boy who killed a man out of revenge. A man who lay before him, thoroughly beaten.
A man who had killed his family through his own negligence, projecting his grief onto the closest figure to the tragedy. Spider-Man. In whatever form the hero came in.
Red and blue or black and red, it was all the same. Three families dead. Two lives remained.
One choice was left, and it was his to make.
A burst of sound shattered the silence stretching out between them.
"Miles!" Ganke's voice cried out, jerking Miles's attention away from Fisk and down to the bottom floor. What was he doing here-?
Quick as a snake, Fisk's right hand grabbed onto Miles's left foot. Blinding pain jolted through him as Fisk crushed it, disorientating him enough for Fisk to get him off balance and throw him over the railing.
Twisting instinctively, he thwipped a web that latched onto the bottom of the walkway, stopping his descent.
A giant blur of black plummeted from above, dropping to the ground and creating a massive crater. Fisk had dropped to the ground.
Ganke, foolish, brash, idiot Ganke froze like a deer in headlights, not making a move to run even as Fisk grabbed him by the throat and forced him to his knees.
More movement at the door barely blipped on Miles's radar as he slowly let the web extend and descend to the floor. He put his hands up placatingly. "No! Don't!"
Fisk kicked Ganke to his stomach, who cried out in pain, foot pinning him as his good hand reached for something in the inner pockets of his suit. He produced what initially looked like a gun, but had a head resembling a taser.
"The scientists never figured out your stupid spider powers," Fisk spat, droplets of blood spraying out. He aimed the gun at Ganke's head, whose eyes shut in terror. "They did figure out your little ability here. What do you call it? 'Venom Strike?' But better, concentrated, deadly."
"Don't hurt him, he's not involved in this," Miles pleaded, taking a step backward. Pure adrenaline numbed the pain in his foot.
"You still have one thing to lose," Fisk laughed darkly, fingers tensing on the trigger, "then we'll truly be even."
Time slowed as he squeezed the trigger. Dancing tendrils of blue light reached out for Ganke's head, the light reflecting off his glasses.
Miles reached forward like that would prevent the death of the one person he had left. Just this once he needed a miracle, anything to stop this.
The pit of electricity in him sang out, calling for its cousin. Pulling upon his power, the milliseconds stretched out as electricity snaked down his arm, down his bicep, through his forearm, circling his wrist, and traveling down to the tips of his fingers.
The blue light reached out, stretching forward to connect with its likeness.
They joined with what felt like a snap, the artificial mixing with the biological. He drew all its power to himself, his whole body protesting as he absorbed the concentrated supply of venom strike.
One step forward, two, fist arching back. Miles's throat ached as he screamed against the overwhelming, suffocating strength of electricity coursing through his whole body.
His fist went through the front of Fisk's suit jacket, burrowing in the gap between two buttons, direct contact with Fisk's body.
Miles released all of the built-up energy.
Light consumed them both, blowing them back in opposite directions.
Miles was hurled across the space, crashing head-first into a desk, flattening it and all of its contents.
Between one blink and the next, there was a shadow above him - blink - and they were touching him, turning him face up.
Miles groaned, fingers twitching without his permission as he got an elbow under him. He managed to look up and across the room, surveying the scene.
Fisk's body was convulsing, stray bolts of electricity still running along his body. His chest was blackened with soot, his clothes fried. In the center of it all was a white outline in the shape of Miles's fist that was rapidly turning black.
There was a police officer frantically talking into his walkie-talkie, calling for backup while vainly attempting to get vitals from Fisk. But every time he tried, he would get zapped and have to back away.
The fight was done. He had won.
A hand touched his shoulder, finally drawing his attention back to the person in front of him. Ganke, whose hair was standing on end like a mad scientist whose experiment had exploded, tears freely flowing down his face.
"What the hell are you doing here Ganke?" Miles wheezed out, arm protectively wrapped around his ribs. He was too exhausted to be mad, though he wanted nothing more than to ream him out.
Ganke laughed wetly. "I had to see you again, I had to come back you up."
"You almost died," Miles hissed, "do you realize how close you were? You're- you're all I have left."
"I thought you were dead, Miles, you were dead," Ganke protested, angrily rubbing his eyes. "You- you went off to fight Kravinoff and then no one saw anything of you, and they found blood all over an office and your parents are gone and-"
Miles forced himself to sit up fully and wrapped Ganke into a tight hug, ignoring the flare of pain from his ribs. Closing his eyes, he soaked in and enjoyed the fact that he was even alive to have this conversation.
"I'm okay," he promised. "But you really shouldn't get anywhere near a super-powered fight, okay? Or you become a hostage, and then I've got you and me to worry about."
A whisper of his spider-sense had him looking back up. The lens of a camera was fixed on him, recording him. The police hadn't had time to set up a proper barricade yet, and the vultures from the news had swooped in to get a good look at him. To watch this vulnerable, private moment between him and his best friend.
Scowling, he broke the hug. "But we really should get out of here."
Ganke looked back, finally spotting the news crew. He nodded his agreement.
Miles attempted to get up, putting pressure on his left foot. An eerie crunch feeling had him reeling, barely suppressing a whimper of pain. He reluctantly sat back down, struggling to keep his expressions at bay. Even with his mask on, he knew how expressive the lenses could be.
A hand wrapped around Miles's back, hoisting his arm across their shoulder. Supporting him, Ganke helped him get to his feet. He kept his foot protectively above the ground, cheeks burning as the camera watched him struggle.
Hobbling along, they passed by the body of Fisk who now had paramedics surrounding him. An oxygen mask was over his mouth, his suit and button-up shirt cut away.
Fisk might survive, he might not. Either way, Fisk wouldn't be challenging him anytime soon. Pointing a gun at a teenager's head and attempting to kill them while on camera would be very hard to defend in court, even with the best-paid lawyers around.
The war was won.
As they left the lobby, yet another ambulance pulled up to the scene. The street was lit up with the red and blue flashing lights of police cars, strobe-like in the evening light.
As much as he wanted to flee the scene entirely, he knew they wouldn't let him go. Not when the police had questions to ask and not when he knew his ankle needed more than Doctor D.I.Y to fix it.
"Can you come with me? To the hospital?" he quietly asked Ganke. The thought of losing sight of his friend when he just got him back and just saved him from death was just… too much.
Ganke turned his head to look at him, making eye contact even with the reflective lenses in the way. "Always."
Finally, a paramedic came up to them. He instantly recognized him, "Josh," Miles greeted him, allowing him to wrap a supporting arm around him to help Ganke get him to the nearby ambulance. "What are you doing in Manhattan?"
"They were a bit short-staffed," Josh explained, giving him a warm smile. "I didn't want to see you again, considering my job, but I'm glad I got to see my favorite patient again."
"Not as easy to carry this time around," Miles joked.
Between the three of them, Miles was on a stretcher within a minute. The ambulance door was shut firmly, but not before he spotted the same cameraman a few feet away, still recording him. Josh passed Ganke a shock blanket before stepping up to assess Miles.
Miles took as deep of a breath as he could with his broken ribs, fingers running along the seam of his mask. It wasn't like everyone didn't know, but taking this step himself… It was hard.
But he pulled it off, setting it to the side. Josh had a small smile that he couldn't seem to suppress, the final confirmation that he was dealing with the same patient.
"I know we've done this all before," Josh started, having adjusted the stretcher to his liking, "but I've got to ask some questions while we get you to the hospital."
"Sure, ask away," Miles said, closing his eyes and letting himself relax against the bed. Exhaustion threatened to drag him into sleep but he knew he still had a long night ahead of him.
"What's your name?" "Miles."
"Do you know where you are?" "Manhattan."
"Do you have any allergies or conditions we should be aware of?" "Got bit by a spider." He heard a quick exhale from one of them, and Miles's mouth twitched at the corner.
"Have you taken any medication recently?" "No."
"Have you had any operations of any kind recently?" "No."
"Are you in any pain?"
That made him open his eyes, giving Josh a disbelieving look. "Yes."
Josh shrugged. "I don't know how different your body is, but this should put a dent in it. I've got some morphine-"
"No." Miles cut him off, staring skeptically at the small glass vial Josh had prematurely brought out. "Nope, don't give me anything. I'm good."
"I can see your bone…" Josh said, eyebrows raising.
"No you can't," Miles denied, resolutely refusing to look at his foot. He watched Ganke blanch in the corner of his eye. "I'm good. 'Tis but a flesh wound."
"Will you take any pain relief?" Josh asked, not unkindly. "I know you might have a… history with this stuff, but you'll only heal better if you're not in agonizing pain."
Miles paused, eyes sweeping over Josh. His spider-sense wasn't going off, not even whispering. He was safe, but to trust someone else when he was this hurt…
He swallowed, looking away. "Okay, alright. But- but not too much please."
Josh nodded, looking relieved. "Sure, can do."
The ride to the hospital had been an exercise in his ability to hide his pain. As the adrenaline wore off, the pain he was in became more and more unbearable. Josh hadn't pushed for him to take more, but the more he winced with every bump the more he knew he might need more. The amount he had been given hadn't nearly been enough to mask the pain.
When they did get to the hospital he had itched to put his mask back on. People watched, stared, as their neighborhood superhero was wheeled in on a stretcher.
The radiologist was very professional at least, hardly talking to him as they X-Rayed every part of him.
They gave him his own private room, which he appreciated but dreaded at the same time. He didn't know how he would pay for all of this. It was partially why he had never gone to a hospital before - but then again, he had never been this badly hurt before.
Maybe fighting before he was fully healed hadn't been the best idea. But he was alive. He hadn't… expected to survive to this point.
Changing into a hospital gown only made him feel… exposed. Vulnerable. The IV drip in his arm helped with the pain, but not the humiliation.
Bitterly, he wished Ganke hadn't interrupted the fight; he would have been able to recover at home instead of going through this circus.
Ganke kept him entertained, at least. He rattled on about mundane news, from new scientific discoveries to the recent bake-sale drama - but quickly skirted that topic when Miles's breath hitched and tears threatened. Dad had been enthusiastically preparing for that.
When the doctors finally came around, they gave him the news straight. His tibia and fibula were broken, the fibula in two places - one at the ball of his bone and one in the middle of it that looked old. But it hadn't healed right. His ribs had multiple fractures too, two half healed and three new breaks.
Worst of all, they recommended surgery for his foot. The surgeon ominously warned that he wouldn't be able to keep being Spider-Man if the bones weren't corrected.
But there was a problem. His enhanced metabolism meant the effectiveness of normal anesthetics was significantly impacted. He would be dazed at best, and even then for only five minutes. Even doped up on pain meds wouldn't make it any easier for them to work, and the same issue of metabolism arose.
Turned out Peter had faced a similar situation early in his career. They had tried to put him under after a bad fight, but it just hadn't worked. It had ended with him fleeing from the hospital altogether before they unmasked him. It had been a few months before he turned up as Spider-Man again after that.
As he was quickly proving, too, his biology was similar enough to Peter's that he was in the same boat. The IV pain meds that they were using on him just to ease his pain in the interim were as high as they could legally give him, but he was fully alert regardless.
Until they could figure out how to work around it without also giving him a lethal dose of either pain or anesthetics, they had wrapped his ribs, covered his foot, and given him what pain medication they could to take the edge off. It hadn't stopped how itchy his wrists were becoming, which only served to add another layer of misery to everything.
This wasn't his day.
It had started with failing to stay undercover on the subway, and it had only gotten worse from there.
Scratch that, it wasn't his week. He still had school to worry about, and- and funerals.
He had funerals to organize. At some point. Soon. One step at a time.
A knock at the door had him blearily sitting at attention. Ganke had nodded off at some point, but Miles was too on edge to join him in blissful unconsciousness. It was sometime in the early morning, the quiet hours before the sun rose once again.
The person coming in didn't turn on the light, something he was grateful for. There was the scrape of something on the ground and the shape shuffled in.
"Matt," Miles greeted, relaxing back into his pile of cushions. "Thought no visitors were allowed this late."
Matt tipped his head in greeting, pulling something out of his back pocket as he approached the bed, holding it out for Miles.
Miles took it without question, then paused as he realized what it was. "Why am I holding a wallet?"
"Give me five bucks out of that," Matt instructed. Mystified, Miles opened it and grabbed the first bill sticking out, passing it and the wallet back to Matt.
"Great, that was my retainer fee." Matt sat down on one of the visitor chairs. "I'm hired and I'm your lawyer now, so I didn't lie to get in here."
Miles squinted at him, vaguely confused, but decided to move past that. "Okay, sure..?"
"I'm also your Guardian ad Litem." When Miles continued to stare at Matt, he explained, "I'll be representing your interests legally. I hope that works for you?"
"No that- that's good. Useful. I- I need someone in my corner," he reassured, eyes fluttering shut against his will.
"Always in your corner. Well done on taking down Fisk and Sandman."
Miles grimaced. "Sure, but I ended up here. Not exactly my best job. How far has me limping around spread?"
When Matt didn't answer, he reluctantly opened his eyes to glance over at him. "That bad? Great. Just what I needed. A broken foot that no one can fix unless I bite some leather and hold real still, and my humiliating post-battle limp being spread around. Just great."
"If it's any consolation, people don't think any less of you."
Miles took the time to study Matt's face. How his hair was plastered to his head, his tie crooked, a cut on his neck that had barely clotted. He had probably been fighting against some of the mutant villains, keeping him from coming to back him up. Guilt weighed on Matt's shoulder.
"I'm glad that there was someone out there fighting the smaller battles. Gave me less to worry about." That wasn't exactly true, but he had been on a warpath. Tunnel-visioned. But in retrospect, it was good to know.
Matt nodded, pursing his lips. "Daredevil got caught up fighting against some enhanced mutants, otherwise he would have come to help you."
Miles shook his head, "You should tell Daredevil that Spider-Man had it under control." When Matt raised an eyebrow at him, he conceded. "Mostly."
Satisfied for now, Matt leaned back. Then he frowned, glancing up in Miles's direction. "The doctors can't put you under?"
"No. They're worried about giving me a lethal dose of something," Miles confirmed with a sigh.
"Can I feel something?" Matt asked.
"Um, sure. Don't know where you're going with this," he said with a frown.
"Give me your hand."
Miles did so, stretching his left hand out for Matt to look at. Matt lightly ran a hand over the scar on his wrist. One of the ones he had gotten from the facility. The facility felt like forever ago, but only yesterday at the same time. He resisted the urge to take his hand back to scratch it.
Matt seemed to hesitate before asking, "This was done by a surgeon of some kind, wasn't it?" When Miles hummed in agreement, his chest tightening with phantom memories, Matt continued, "Were you… awake for it?"
"No… Oh! Oh, okay… I understand now."
Matt leaned back, releasing his hand. "Good."
"I don't want to go digging through those files." Miles crossed his arms, hiding his wrists. "And- and they knew how to knock me out. Really, really quickly. If the information got out-"
"Your bone is sticking out of your skin-"
"I know that, and I'm trying not to think about it. Maybe, maybe it would be better if I just did the whole bite-the-bullet thing. I can do that. No need to go digging through police files-"
"Absolutely not, you're not going to do it unmedicated." Matt interrupted, leaving no room for arguments.
Matt was entirely unfazed by the glare Miles gave him. "I can handle a little pain."
"I can hear how fast your heart is racing from here."
"Yeah, it's almost like you brought up the worst time of my life or something," Miles retorted, digging the heel of his hand into his head.
"It's been like that since I came into the room."
"Congrats on being able to read a heart monitor," Miles spat.
There was a pause, and then Matt began to chuckle. And then laugh. Loud enough that Ganke began to stir. "What's so funny?" Miles asked, the fury draining out of him. His cheeks warmed.
"I can't read a heart monitor," Matt explained, laughter petering out. "I can't read anything. I'm blind. You lived at my place for a week."
"What?"
"You crashed on my couch for a whole week, how did you not notice?"
"You're blind?" Miles asked incredulously, his whole face and ears heating up.
"Yes, Miles. I even walked in here with my cane. What did you think that was?"
"I- I don't know. I wasn't exactly paying attention," Miles grumbled. That would explain why he didn't have a TV. Or a computer. Why he rarely looked Miles in the eye. He hadn't had time to make assumptions - he was a bit preoccupied!
"Regardless of your… observational skills-"
"I'm never going to hear the end of this."
"-you need this surgery. I know you're afraid, but you can't let this go untreated," Matt doubled down. Miles refused to look back at him, stubbornly crossing his arms and sinking further into the cushions.
"It's bad enough that Owl and Fisk know how to take me down. I don't trust anyone here to keep that secret safe either," Miles argued.
"Not even me?" Matt asked.
Miles deflated. "Okay, maybe you."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Matt nod. "I can help keep the formula out of paperwork. That will only delay that information getting out to the wider community, but I'm sure we can achieve at least that much."
When Miles still didn't reply, he added, "We could also get them to tape the surgery, if that's what you're worried about."
Miles finally looked at him. "You can do that?"
"Yep. It's protected under HIPAA, so they can't share it. You would be able to watch it back afterward."
Miles took a moment to absorb that. If he was really honest with himself, he was more terrified that the doctors would do something nefarious, something sneaky that he had no idea about until it was too late.
He still didn't know what the scientists at the facility had done to him, even though he knew all the information was waiting for him in the very files that would help him now.
Chances were pretty good that he would never watch the videotape back, but if he needed it, it would be there.
"Okay," Miles finally agreed.
It took hours for them to find the right file from the police precinct and then to make their own version of the formula, but eventually, they had everything ready.
Miles had caught a fitful nap while waiting, pure exhaustion barely enough to drag him down. When he woke, hungry and parched and antsy, he sent Ganke on a mission to collect his backpack. He didn't need to see this next part, and Miles knew how hard it could be just to wait around. Finding his backpack was a good distraction.
Matt followed Miles as far as he was allowed, and with a final reassuring squeeze of Miles's hand, he was left behind. Miles stubbornly kept his composure all the way until they placed the mask over his face.
He attempted to flinch away at the familiar smell of bug spray, breath hitching with unshed tears, but it dragged him down into unconsciousness so quickly that it didn't even matter.
When he finally stirred, the level of background pain had gone from a seven to a four on the pain scale. The room was coated in darkness despite the curtains being partially opened - it had to be night again.
Miles opened his eyes, looking around the room. Matt was sitting at attention, and absently he realized it was probably because he had heard him starting to stir.
"'Time issit?" Miles slurred, taking his time to sit up.
"Around six. You've been asleep for a while," Matt said.
"Oh. Did they fix it?" Miles asked, moving the sheets so he could see the cast on his leg. The black cast stretched from just below his knee down.
"Your leg is fixed. The formula for your anesthetic was destroyed. Nothing… amiss happened," Matt reassured.
Miles nodded, readjusting his pillows and leaning back against them. "So, when can I get out of here?"
"You just woke up," Matt pointed out, his eyebrow raising.
"Yep, so now I can leave. No point in staying here when I'm mending," Miles argued.
Matt tipped his head back, sighing, as he concluded that Miles was going to be especially stubborn about this. There was no point in fighting him on it. "I'll make arrangements."
"Thanks."
Matt got up and left the room just as Ganke ducked in, his hand raising halfway up for a wave before blinking, frowning, and awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. Miles had to ask how exactly he operated as Daredevil later…
"Hey Miles, good to see you awake. I got the backpack!" Ganke put it down on a clear spot on the bed, tipping it towards Miles. "You wouldn't believe how hard it was to get this! I went to the wrong rooftop like, three times, and then I had someone recognize me and they were asking how you were doing and it was really awkward but- but I have it!"
Miles riffled through the bag, quickly pulling out his phone. He turned it on and grimaced at the 99+ symbol on almost every app. "Thank you Ganke, really. I don't think I would have been able to get this back otherwise."
Ganke shrugged, taking up a seat next to the bed. "Least I could do. My Oma says you can stay at our place if you need to, by the way. She said something about cooking you something to eat - so prepare for her to mother hen you."
The sudden pain in his chest was jarring. Swallowing his grief, he gave Ganke a weak smile. "That'll be great. Um, tell her I say hi."
"She could hardly believe you were Spider-Man! She said you must be really brave-"
"Ganke," Miles snapped, nails digging into the palm of his hand, "I don't- don't talk about that right now. Please."
Saved by the bell, Matt opened the door and walked back in. "The doctors aren't thrilled you're leaving, but they've agreed. A friend of mine is coming to pick us up."
"Oh, good. Thanks, Matt." Miles took a deep breath, trying to shake off the near argument with Ganke. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, realizing a moment later he wouldn't be able to get up anyway. "Am I going to need a wheelchair? That- that's somehow worse."
Miles spotted the faintly amused look Matt had on his face. "No, you'll get crutches," he reassured.
Ganke ran distraction by heading out the front entrance. The press had camped out front of the hospital - turns out both him and Fisk were in the same hospital. Seemed like they didn't think either of them were in any state to be a threat to the other.
Meanwhile, having borrowed an oversized hoodie to at least attempt to hide, Miles took his time getting used to the crutches. Even with the natural balance of a spider, it was disorientating learning to use them.
With Matt by his side carrying Miles's backpack, they headed out the back entrance to the waiting car.
"Hi, Miles!" the driver greeted. "Here, let me grab the door for you."
"Uh, thanks." Miles put the crutches in the backseat first before following them. He let himself slump into the seat, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. No cameras were watching them - Ganke had proven to be a great distraction.
As Matt got himself in, the driver turned around in his seat and extended a hand. "I'm Foggy, Matt's partner in crime and best friend."
As Miles took the hand and shook it, Matt grumbled quietly, "There is no crime. That is the opposite of what we do." Foggy gave Miles a conspiratorial wink.
Miles couldn't help his small smile, some tension releasing from his shoulders. Then he steeled himself. "Before we go to Matt's, can we drop by my place? I know it's a bit- bit out of the way. It's fine if we don't."
"Yeah, of course. You'll need some clothes while you're staying at Matt's anyway," Foggy agreed easily, turning the car on. Some light pop music came on from the radio, relieving Miles of the need to fill the silence with awkward small talk.
As they pulled out of the hospital, Miles caught a glimpse of the crowd. It was… big. There was hardly any sidewalk left for normal people as everyone from journalists to Spider-Man fans crowded the entrance. In the middle of it all, he could barely see poor Ganke, who was hopelessly trying to maneuver through with microphones, cameras and phones shoved at him.
If he had been forced to brave that crowd, he probably would have venom struck at least one person.
Miles absently watched the New York streets pass by, ignoring the quiet conversation happening in the front seat. He didn't want to scroll on his phone, either, unwilling to sort through the mess of notifications waiting for him there. It was on his to-do list, but he had bigger issues to sort out.
Funerals were the main thing. Then wills. He would probably need to get himself emancipated - there wasn't much point in some random extended auntie dragging him away from New York. If he took some sponsorships he would probably be able to support himself well enough - he had endorsed baby powder that one time, and it had ended badly but… if he was careful and did background research this time, he should get out of it without another apology video.
Then there was school to worry about. Would they even allow him back? He had already missed so much, and now he was an internationally known celebrity. Maybe they wouldn't appreciate the distraction he would be. He didn't want to be a distraction, but none of this had been his choice.
Peter had been right to tell him to cover his face. And he had. But one slip up and now he was dealing with this mess.
Before he knew it, they were pulling up to his home. Digging around in his backpack, he grabbed the house key before shuffling out the door with the crutches. Flipping the hood up to obscure his face, Miles quietly said, "I won't be long."
"Take your time," Matt reassured. "Call out if you need any help."
No reporters were around to see him struggle with the crutches, only a few pedestrians that didn't bother to investigate long enough to see his face. He shut the car door and hobbled to the front door.
The front steps took way too long as he was forced to take them one at a time. He bit down a frustrated noise, desperately wanting to reach the small bit of privacy the apartment block could provide.
Stupid foot. Stupid Ganke. Stupid Fisk.
When he made it inside, looking up the flight of stairs, he tipped his head back and sighed. There was no way he was making it up the normal way.
Hopping on one foot, he tucked the crutches under one arm and latched on to the wall. It was still awkward. He had to use his knee instead of his foot on his left leg, his right arm occupied with the crutches, but it was infinitely faster than any other method.
As he leaned the crutches against the door, having made it up the three flights without incident, his spider-sense gave a quiet hum at the same time as he heard a click.
Miles slowly looked back. It was one of their neighbors - Thomas, he thinks? He could never quite remember his name. All he knew was that he was at university studying business and that he was living at home while he does.
Thomas texted something into his phone, barely even glancing up at Miles. But Miles knew he took a picture of him. Like this. Crutches and foot in a cast and hanging off of a wall.
"What can I do to convince you to delete that?" Miles asked, voice wobbling despite his best effort. He set himself down on the ground, picking up the crutches.
Thomas finally looked up at him, eyes lit in manic delight. Miles swallowed, furiously stamping down memories of Fisk. "Nah, I'm keeping this." He backed up, eyes going back down to his phone. "See you around!"
Miles watches him skip down the steps, heart in his throat. Another thing he was going to have to get used to - all the weird and embarrassing and humiliating things he did as Spider-Man were well documented, and now Miles Morales was going to get that same treatment. Great.
It was only then, when it was too late to do anything, that he realized he could have just smashed the phone. It might not have prevented it from getting around - the cloud was still a thing - but it would have given him the chance to make a bargain. Too late.
Shoving all of his emotions into a metaphorical box to deal with later, he put the key in the door. He had to get a move on - he was now on a timer before the press turned up.
Crutches loud in the otherwise silent home, Miles didn't let himself look around as he made a beeline for his room. Just as he turned the corner, his spider-sense hummed a warning.
"Freeze!" someone shouted.
Miles flinched back, almost losing his balance as he ducked back around the corner. Something metallic glinted in the few rays of moonlight streaming in.
Relying purely on instinct, he dropped a crutch in favor of webbing the gun out of the intruder's hand and plastered it to the wall.
The silence stretched out. Still safely tucked around the corner, Miles took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart. He closed his eyes, hearing three- no, four, heartbeats in the living room. He was in no state for a fight, but he would if he had to.
"I don't know who you are, but it's a dick move to trespass," Miles called out, proud of how little his voice shook.
Just as he was about to say something else, maybe threaten to call the police, he heard a small sob and a, "Miles?
He knew that voice. Had known it all his life. But they were- he was sure they were- but they couldn't be- this was such a cruel prank and- and-
"Mom?" Miles breathed out, helpless to stop the tears gathering in his eyes.
There was a cautious step - one, two - moving around the couch.
He clenched his eyes shut, terrified to open them and discover it was all a lie. A fantasy formed from the last of the medication leaving his system. To wake up in bed and find that he had dreamed of what he wanted most of all.
He had watched them, struggling in the sand.
He had watched the sand swallow them down.
He had wrung himself dry, agonizing over their final moments. Choking on the grief of watching them suffocate to death, helpless to stop it.
"Miles…" his Dad whispered, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. He helplessly reached up, grasping at the hand with both of his.
He finally opened his eyes, his vision completely blurred with tears. But even through the haze of unshed tears, he knew the person standing before him. Even if his chin had more beard fuzz than he was used to, his clothes wrinkled and stained.
"You're- you're alive?" Miles choked out, voice cracking on the last word.
Warm arms wrapped him up in a tight embrace, holding him together as all the tightly bottled up and contained emotions smashed into pieces.
The flood of feelings had him as limp as a ragdoll, wailing his grief into the solid, living, breathing chest of his Dad.
And his Dad held him, letting them sink to the floor.
A moment later a hand was in his hair and a warm body was at his back, sandwiching him in.
They were alive.
He hadn't killed them.