Drip, drip, drip.

Miles reluctantly began to wake up, his eyes crusted over and his whole body cold. He shivered and curled up tighter. He didn't want to move, but time trudged on despite his protests. So, he stayed awake, uncomfortable but reluctant to move.

The mural caught his eye when he finally sat up, his whole body protesting the movement. His wrists ached, protesting the hours upon hours of the webshooters constantly rubbing. With stiff fingers he unclipped them, setting them aside close by.

All the spider-people looked down at him still, but with fresh eyes, he knew they weren't judging him. Not really. They weren't here to judge him. They never would be.

Swallowing, mouth dry, he forced himself to look away. He focused instead on assessing his body. It was almost second nature, at this point, to do a sweep of his body and evaluate his injuries.

There was crusted blood all down his left side from the bullet grazing him, but when he tentatively touched it there was no open wound. The scab was still raised and tender to the touch, but that would pass. His suit was damaged again, the frayed edges of the costume revealing the healed skin. Just another tear to repair. Physically, he was whole again.

Even knowing that he was fine, that he was okay, and that he could leave, he was rooted to the spot. The mural was the closest he would ever get to seeing his friends, the people who would truly understand him. The people who could help him piece together the shattered parts of himself. He didn't want to leave their presence yet.

How could he put together the pieces of himself alone? The part that so desperately wanted to kill Fisk in revenge, who willingly let someone die because they had hurt him, who watched his parents drown in sand while on his knees begging for their lives… with the softer parts of himself? The part that spray-painted murals of his friends and family, who inspired little girls like Katie, who left stickers where only he could find them… and who would be a big brother?

The pieces are scattered and jagged and try as he might, he didn't think they would ever fit together again. Instead, as he stared at the outline of a person in expectations, he tried to put together something resembling human - resembling okay. He couldn't face the world without the mask ready for his performance.

There was a sound from the entrance. Before he had even fully registered what it was, he shot a web in its direction.

"Everyone's looking for you."

It was Daredevil. He didn't even have the energy to be surprised. Daredevil's upper arm and shoulder were pinned to the wall by the web. Miles looked away, propping his knees up so he could hug them.

He heard Daredevil wrench himself out, debris scattering along the ground, and was at least mildly surprised by that. Miles had still yet to ask him about how he was Daredevil, nor did he know what powers he had. He might have super strength if he was able to get out of the webs.

"They're worried about you," Daredevil said, standing a few feet away. Hovering.

"I know," Miles whispered, voice choked and small. "I'm sorry."

"Are you hurt?"

Miles slumped into the wall, studying a rock on the floor instead of looking up at Daredevil. "No. It's healed. I'm fine."

"You're not."

Miles folded like a house of cards. "Yeah. I'm not."

Daredevil, seemingly satisfied by Miles's admission, walked over and sat to Miles's left. Without hesitation Daredevil took off the cowl, setting his helmet to the side, baring his face.

Miles studied his expression for a moment, trying to read him. There was no pity, no disgust, just patience. Miles let himself relax a bit more, shoulders dropping from where they had been around his neck.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Matt prompted after a long moment.

Miles's immediate instinct was to say no, to poorly attempt to pull a mask on, but with the eyes of his friends, his peers, watching him, he couldn't muster the will to. Even so, it took a few minutes to sort through his swirling thoughts enough to produce the right words.

"I tried to kill Fisk."

The silence stretched out as Matt waited for him to elaborate. It loosened his tongue. "I… wanted him dead. Spider-Man isn't meant to- to want that. To do that. Even now, I'm happy that he's so hurt. That I beat him up so badly he'll need physiotherapy."

Miles wrapped his hands around his knees, drawing them in closer. "I'm supposed to- to figure out their plans and fight them and then hand them over to the police. But I wasn't trying to do that. I was trying to kill him. I wanted to kill Sandman too, but he's not exactly- well, killable. I got Owl killed."

Matt made an encouraging noise for him to continue. Miles curled up tighter, reluctant to continue, but Matt patiently waited him out. He knew it was a dumb psychological trick to get people talking, and he knew he could wait and that eventually Matt might speak, but it was like Matt had opened the floodgates. In the quiet ambiance of the underground, with only the soft drip, drip, drip, of pipes, it unlocked his voice and allowed him to speak about everything that had been weighing on him.

Miles's eyes lingered on the mural of his friends. Studied Gwen. Studied Peter B. "I became Spider-Man because I promised Peter that I would blow up the collider. He promised to show me the ropes." Every word tumbled out faster and faster. "But he died and I never got that, and I just wish I had someone to- I don't know. Tell me how to do this. I didn't even know him - all I know is the shadow he left. And- and I'm letting him down. I haven't even been doing regular patrols for months because I've been so caught up in my own stuff."

And there it was. The bottled-up thoughts and emotions had been poured out to a willing ear. It left Miles exhausted and raw, but lighter than he had been in months.

He glanced at Matt from his peripheral vision. Matt was looking in the general direction of the mural, but Matt couldn't see all the designs. It was just a wall for him.

"I knew him," Matt finally said. He swallowed, his mouth open but he didn't speak for a beat too long. Miles turned his head, looking at Matt. He was frowning, forehead creased into well-worn lines. "We both started around the same time. I didn't see him very often. He was in Queens. I was in Hell's Kitchen. But sometimes we would see each other. More than a few times we patched each other up after particularly hard fights."

Matt was the one who turned away this time. "I wish I had been able to save him. I wish he had told me about the collider. I knew he had been investigating Alchemax but I had been working on a different case. Maybe I would have been able to save him."

Sometimes, late at night, Miles would wonder how things would have been different. How he could have saved Peter. Mostly he wished that he had picked up Peter and ran. Never mind how he only narrowly escaped from the Prowler - Uncle Aaron. Or that Peter had already been hurt pretty badly. He wondered if he hadn't been there, if Peter hadn't had to save him, if they hadn't talked, whether he would have lived.

But when he played out that scenario, he wasn't sure if he would have ever put the mask on. With no life-and-death stakes to spur him on, without the possibility of one of the other spiders staying behind and dying a painful death, would he have taken that leap of faith? He didn't know, and sometimes that question weighed heavy on his chest.

Matt looked at him for a long moment, his blind eyes feeling like they were searching Miles's very soul. "He lost people he loved," he continued. "He lost his first love, Gwen. No one could hold him back from trying to avenge her and kill the Green Goblin." He smiled without humor. "That's how he became the hulking monster he is today. During their battle, he fell into a vat of chemicals that mutated him horribly. He had been smart, Kingpin smart, and now he's… that."

Matt's eyes bore into him, catching his full attention before he said, "That changed Peter, a lot."

Miles sat up straighter, letting his knees slide back down to the ground.

"He wasn't perfect. Peter was just… a kid trying his best. It's easy to look back and see all the good he did. But he struggled. A lot. He didn't have anyone to tell him that he was doing the right thing, or how to be Spider-Man. There was no one to tell him what mistakes to avoid, or what to worry about. He was Spider-Man, for better or worse."

Miles swallowed, averting his gaze from the soul-searching look. Absently, he scratched at his wrist. "He left a big hole to fill."

"He did," Matt agreed easily. "I miss him. We all do. But-" Matt put a hand on Miles's shoulder, bringing his attention back to him- "even if you're his successor, you don't have to be him. You can't be him. You have to do your own thing."

Miles let out a slow breath. It wasn't the first time he had heard that sentiment. Peter B had said, 'Don't do it like me, do it like you.' But it had been over a year since he had heard it. Maybe he needed to take that advice onboard again.

But that wasn't the full extent of why he had fled down into the subway system, seeking familiar faces. If that was all it was, he would have just designed another suit.

"I feel like everyone's watching me," Miles mumbled, folding his arms and leaning back. "Every mistake I make, it'll be known. As Miles or as Spider-Man. There's no… escape. From responsibilities." He quickly amended that. "Not that this job isn't a responsibility. It's always been one. But I… enjoyed it. It has just felt like a… curse, recently. I wouldn't have been kidnapped if it wasn't for the mask and then I wouldn't have been blackmailed and had my family threatened and-" he cut himself off with a frustrated noise, kicking at a pebble by his foot.

The silence stretched for a moment. "You've been through a lot," Matt agreed. "You still kept moving forward. That's admirable."

Miles shrugged. "I didn't really have a choice."

"You did," Matt said, leaving no room for argument. "You could have decided not to be Spider-Man after the facility. Or after the fight with Mysterio. You want to be Spider-Man, just like how I want to be Daredevil."

Matt said it like it was that simple. That his want to go out and wear the suit was just a simple fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Miles wanted to be Spider-Man. Miles mulled over that statement for a long moment.

"Yeah. I want to be Spider-Man." He sighed and looked back at the mural. His eyes caught on Uncle Aaron's face. If he were still here, he would probably have some good advice. At least for the… social aspects of all this. How to face a crowd of people and appear confident. How to keep his cool. "It's going to be… hard. Really hard. Everyone knows who I am."

"It will be. I don't envy you that."

Miles snorted, a small smile breaking through. "It'll be a… leap of faith. I just hope I don't mess it up."

Matt lightly squeezed Miles's shoulder before letting go. "Even if you do, you have people looking out for you. All of us want to see you succeed. You'll see."

Miles nodded. Matt had at least proven he would help Miles. That he was looking out for him. Miles would probably be dead, or worse, if Matt hadn't been around.

Picking up his webshooters, he turned them over in his hand. Then frowned. He glanced over at Matt, at the web still clinging to his suit from when Miles had webbed him to the wall. Back down at the webshooters, which had definitely not been on his hands when he had done that. Then to his exposed wrists, at the scars from the facility.

"So, were you going to mention that I have organic webs now?" Miles demanded, hesitantly trying to thwip a web across the room. Sure enough, a web hit the back wall. When he tugged on it, it broke. Weaker than the artificial ones, then. At least for now - he would have to test them out when he went home.

Matt chuckled. "No. I figured it would be better if I let you discover them on your own."

"Matt!" Miles hissed, running a finger along the length of his scar. He could feel a small hole, now that he was paying attention. "What the hell!"

"You had enough to fret over as it was," Matt explained, but his smile betrayed him.

Miles grumbled but had no heat behind his annoyance. He was still feeling over his wrist, trying to figure it out. "I don't even know when this happened."

"The… organ has been there since I met you. The opening is new. You didn't have it before last night," Matt told him.

Miles absently mulled over that. It must have happened during the Sandman or Fisk fight. Maybe absorbing the artificial venom strike had something to do with it.

"I guess this is… cool," Miles eventually said. It was an advantage he could use in battle. Even if the webs were weaker, in a tight spot, they could be used to temporarily blind someone.

Matt got up and offered Miles his hand. "Ready to face the world yet?"

"I guess." Miles accepted the hand, letting Matt pull him to his feet.

Matt put a reassuring hand on Miles's shoulder. "Try to embrace this," he advised. "Find any silver linings you can. There will be many."

Miles took a deep breath, eyes straying to the mural once again. He could never be Peter, or Gwen, or Peter B, Noir, or Peni. He wasn't a dancer or a master coder. He was only Miles, and would only ever be Miles. He had to embrace that, and that he was Spider-Man too. They had always been the same person, after all.

He was Spider-Man when he spray-painted his first suit. He was Miles when he destroyed the collider. He was Spider-Man when he escaped the facility with Amy and Jasmine. He was Miles when he absorbed the artificial venom, saving Ganke.

He had been Spider-Man for over a year, Miles Morales his whole life. He was Spider-Man, the kid from Brooklyn who went to Vision, with two parents who loved him, and a soon-to-be big brother.

He had faced starvation, experimentation, manipulation, suffocation, and drowning. And had come out on top.

He was Miles Morales - Spider-Man.

He would always be both, even if sometimes it had been easier to separate his identities.

"Yeah. There will be," he agreed.

Many things would be easier. No longer would he have to think of believable lies on the spot to account for time lost as Spider-Man. No longer would he have to carefully protect his identity. There was one less layer of stress to being Spider-Man, even if it had led to all new ones.

He could face this. He had faced worse.


As they climbed out of the subway together, Miles couldn't help but drag his feet a little. Even with all that had been resolved, he hesitated to face everything. To face the world again.

There were some noises of surprise and at least one phone pulled out to record him as he climbed up a building, Daredevil by his side. It wasn't until they had perched several stories high, both of them blending into the night, that Miles finally spoke up.

"I think I have some apologies to give," he said, resting his hands on his thighs.

Daredevil glanced over at him, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Yeah?"

"I, uh. I want to go do that. Now," Miles whispered.

Daredevil put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, I'll be fine. Just- let them know I'm okay. I mean, I'll let them know I'm okay, but Mrs. Parker probably sent you out and-"

A small laugh cut Miles off, and he resisted the urge to wring his hands together.

"I'll let May know you're okay. I'm only a phone call away if you need me," Daredevil assured. "Good luck."

With a hop and a leap, Daredevil crossed over to the next building, disappearing from sight when he jumped to a lower building.

Miles stood up straight, cracked his neck side to side, and thwipped the first web. If he waited too long, he knew he would freeze up and never make the journey. It didn't take long for him to swing to his destination, his body on autopilot as he swung through neighborhoods he knew like the back of his hand.

It was only when he had knocked on the window with a rap, rap, rap rap rap, that he remembered with a small twinge of guilt that it was late on a school night. Miles may have been allowed to take the rest of the semester off, but Ganke hadn't been.

The window was quickly opened anyway, and Ganke grabbed his hand to pull him inside.

"Where have you been?" Ganke demanded. "Your parents have been calling nonstop."

Miles took off his mask and set it on the desk. "I had some… things to sort out," he answered evasively.

"Why do you smell like blood? Hang on-" Ganke stepped towards the bunk bed, crouching down to grab the first aid kit. Miles put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"I'm healed, it's fine. It's old blood," he explained. Ganke looked him over, eyes narrowed, and pulled it out anyway. "Wha- Ganke, I'm serious."

Ganke stood back up, placing the well-stocked first aid kit on the bed. "Sure."

"Ganke, please," Miles tried. Ganke unzipped the bag, pulling out a large plaster and disinfectant. "I was grazed by a bullet but it's just old blood. I checked. It's healed up."

Ganke finally stopped, putting his hands on his hips. "And that's all there is?"

"Yeah."

"You smell… like, burnt? Too?"

Miles looked away, warmth creeping up the back of his neck, "It's my suit from- from the fight with Fisk. I haven't washed it yet."

"Oh. So you're not hurt?" Ganke asked.

"Yep. I'm okay," Miles reassured.

Ganke sucked in a breath, and let it out slowly. Miles kept quiet as he did it, watching curiously how Ganke closed his eyes and seemed to count on his fingers in time with every inhale and exhale. When he was finally done, his breathing evened out, he sat down on the bed, pulling his feet up so he could sit with crossed legs.

"Okay. So if you're not hurt, why are you here?" Ganke asked.

Miles folded his arms and leaned back against the desk. "I… wanted to see you. And apologize," he said, glad that his voice didn't waver.

Ganke raised an eyebrow. He didn't reply: instead, he waited for Miles to continue. A small flash of irritation welled inside of him. Mostly at himself, for how predictable he was - both Matt and Ganke had used the same technique on him.

"You've been a really good friend," Miles started, resisting the urge to look away. "And I've been an asshole. I've been so focused on my stuff and… well I haven't really made time for us."

Ganke sighed, breaking eye contact first. "I didn't want to put more on your plate."

Miles looked down at his feet, studying the rips in his costume. "I meant it when I said you were all I had left, you know." The words tried to clog up in his throat, a phantom weight settling on his chest. He swallowed. "Or, at least I thought you were… I thought my parents were dead, but you thought all of us were dead. I'm sorry I didn't get a hold of you sooner."

Ganke sniffled, eyes going watery. Miles, with no small amount of alarm, scrambled to grab the tissue box on the desk and passed the whole thing to him. "It was really hard when the facility had you," he said, voice wavering and the smallest he had ever heard it. "I almost broke and told everyone that you were Spider-Man so many times because it had been so long and your parents were worried about you, and they had so many questions, and I wanted to say 'he's Spider-Man, I'm sure he's fine' so many times but you weren't. You were really hurt and I knew how dangerous your job was but you were skin and bones, and then you fought Kravinoff and Owl and you were gone again and-"

"Maybe it would have been easier," Miles cut him off, folding his arms again. "If everyone had known my identity from the start. Thank you for keeping it a secret, though."

Ganke shrugged, wiping at his cheeks with a tissue. "I probably would have told everyone. But you came back and, yeah. I don't know. I don't know how you can be Spider-Man. It's… terrifying," Ganke admitted, eyes darting to the floor. "I almost died once and I'm a wreck, and you face it all the time like it's no big deal."

It was Miles's turn to shrug, cheeks warming. "You get used to it. I don't want… you to get used to it, though."

"You don't talk about it though. I've felt like blabbing to everyone all about it, all the time. I've had to book in, like, so many appointments with my therapist."

Miles couldn't help but glance at the still-open window, the curtains slowly shifting in the cold autumn breeze. He itched to dive through to avoid where the conversation was going. But he had done that already, running away from his well-meaning friend wanting him to get some help. It was part of why he was here, apologizing for being an asshole.

Ganke caught the look, his hands going up placatingly. "I'm not going to, like, insist that you talk to me or a therapist, though. I get that that's not how you handle things."

"I prefer punching my feelings out," Miles tried to joke, but the delivery landed flat on its face. Ganke shifted, tensing up.

"Yeah, I saw that," he said, voice hushed and small.

Right, Ganke had seen him about to kill Fisk. How he had stood over the cowering form of his enemy, lighting up the room with electric blue light ready to end him. If Ganke hadn't interrupted…

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that," Miles breathed out. With shaking hands he took his gloves off one by one, his webshooters joining them. He wanted to prove, to Ganke and himself, that he was determined to have this much-needed conversation. "I was… sure I had nothing left to lose. I wanted to take someone down with me, I guess. You… reminded me that I was wrong. Even if you caught me off guard and gave Fisk a chance to, well."

Ganke passed Miles a tissue. He absently used it to wipe away a stray tear.

"Please don't get hurt like that again. I almost threw up, like, three times looking at it," Ganke said, voice determinedly light-heartedly.

Miles snorted, the sound wet. He rolled his ankle from side to side, just to satiate the part of himself that worried. "I'll try not to."

"You say, with literal dried blood on you," Ganke pointed out.

Miles winced. He had almost forgotten about it. "Sorry."

Ganke waved him off. "Whatever."

The silence stretched uncomfortably, only filled with the background noise of Brooklyn.

"I will get help," Miles said slowly, refusing to choke on the words. "A therapist."

Miles didn't miss the shocked look on Ganke's face. Narrowly avoided wincing at the surprise such a statement could cause. He studied the wall instead and swallowed. "I felt like no one would understand, and I didn't want to talk to you because, you, well, I didn't want to… I don't know. You always seemed to…"

Miles sucked in a breath, exhaled. Took a moment to breathe and sort out his thoughts before continuing. "You only saw the best parts of being Spider-Man, the cool stuff. I felt like you had put me on a… pedestal. That I couldn't live up to. I've only ever wanted to give you the cleansed version of all this, so… maybe that was my fault too."

Ganke folded his arms. "You know I wanted to hear all about it."

"Sure," Miles agreed, "but it's one thing to tell you about how I beat Sandman using water and a venom strike. It's another to tell you how I was terrified the whole time, scared that I would be suffocated to death because I couldn't figure out how to beat him."

The look he got was sharp, piercing. "You could have just told me that too."

Miles shrugged, wilting under his friend's gaze. "I don't know. It's… hard to put into words. You were just so… excited about it all. More than I was. I didn't want that to stop, I guess."

Ganke looked down at the box of tissues in his lap. "Well, not everyone is friends with Spider-Man, either."

Miles closed his eyes, resisting the urge to cringe away from that statement. "I don't want to just be Spider-Man, though. Not to you. I want to be Miles."

The silence stretched for a long, unnerving moment. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way," Ganke apologized. When Miles opened his eyes, glancing up at his friend, guilt was plastered on his friend's face. "I guess it was just… easier to talk about Spider-Man. But it wasn't for you. I'm sorry."

Miles nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I just feel like… we need to start again. Everyone is only ever going to see me as Spider-Man, now that my identity is out. I don't want to be that to you, not anymore. I just want a place to feel… normal."

Ganke gave him a small smile, "Yeah. I can do that. We can do that. I won't be friends with Spider-Man, I'm friends with Miles."

"Well, they're the same person," Miles argued with no heat behind it.

"Of course you are. I just won't be your 'guy in the chair' all the time. Not when I don't have to be."

Miles extended a hand, the weight on his chest easing. "Deal?"

"Deal." They shook on it.

Miles exhaled, a small smile on his face. "Thank you."

"No big deal," Ganke said with a shrug. He glanced at the window, where the curtains were still softly moving in the breeze. "Are you staying here tonight? If you do, you should probably call your parents."

Miles jolted, grabbing his webshooters and putting them back on. "Crap, right, nope, I'm going back to the hotel."

Ganke grabbed Miles's arm, stopping Miles with an amused grin on his face. "Before you go, you should probably get that blood off. Your parents are freaked out enough."

"Right, yes, thank you," Miles said with a laugh, cheeks warming up.

They didn't get any of it out of his suit, but that was okay. All the itchy dried blood was gone.


Miles landed on the balcony with a soft thump. He didn't allow himself time to hesitate before opening the door, ignoring how his hands shook with nerves.

The sound must have alerted them: Mom and Dad were on him immediately. They fussed over him, overlapping questions overwhelming him, but he didn't mind. He submitted to it without complaint.

"I'm sorry. I should have brought my phone with me. I won't do that again," Miles promised, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

"Más vale que no!" Mom scolded, finally finishing her examination of him and enveloping him in a tight hug. "We were worried."

"I know, I'm sorry," Miles apologized again, hugging her back.

"What were you doing going out as Spider-Man so soon?" Dad asked, hand on Miles's shoulder. "You only just healed from your broken leg!"

Miles studied his feet. "I just- I had to get some energy out. I don't know."

"You should have talked to us."

"I know."

"Don't know, do," Dad scolded.

"Okay, okay, I will," Miles grumbled, though there was no heat behind it.

Mom clearly wasn't entirely satisfied, but let it go for now. She stood back, picking at a stray thread on his costume. "Your costume is so…"

"Not exactly new, I know. I'm… I'm thinking of visiting Mrs Parker. I have some things I need her help with anyway," Miles said, hands on his hips.

Mom shared a glance with Dad, one of those silent conversations he wasn't included in. "Is that all you need help with?" she asked softly.

Miles pursed his lips, gaze jumping to a corner of the room instead of meeting their eyes. "I guess… maybe… maybe I could join a martial arts club or something. Learn some first aid. Stuff to help me… help others," he said slowly, haltingly.

Mom cupped his cheek, her hand warm against his skin. "Of course."

"Maybe, uh, maybe I should see someone too. Someone to talk to about all… this," Miles said slowly, balling his hands into fists so they wouldn't shake.

Mom's eyes softened. She kissed him on the forehead. "I think that's a great idea."

Miles exhaled, smiling. "Cool."


Even with all that he had resolved, he still wasn't ready to face New York as Miles. He didn't know how they would react to him, and he wanted to squeeze out just a little more time before he had to face the music.

Reluctantly he washed his suit in the hotel bath that night, hanging it over the curtain railing, before heading to bed. It was a long way to Queens and going out in a blood-soaked suit would be a great way to end up on the evening news for all the wrong reasons. Yet it was still too cold to go swinging in what clothes he had at the hotel, and he didn't want to risk getting swarmed by going there on the subway.

Despite having slept practically the whole day, he was out like a light when he finally hit the pillows. Three back-to-back emotional conversations had drained him completely and left his dreams that night blissfully black.

The next day was calm. He took his time waking up and getting out of bed, joining his Dad on the couch with a bowl of hotel cereal. They watched an episode of something random together before Miles went to put his suit on. He spent another five minutes standing underneath the heater, soaking in the warmth and evaporating the last of the water before facing the cold air outside.

As he pulled his mask on, doubling checking his webshooters, Dad spoke up before he reached the door. "Be safe," he insisted.

Miles nodded, his smile hidden by the mask. "I will be, promise."

He closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath, shaking out his nerves. He had done this a thousand times before. He liked swinging. One step, two, three, he launched himself off the railing, backflipping into the New York skyline.

The air whooshed past him as he swung, cold against his exposed skin from the rips in his costume. He forced himself to ignore the shouts and phones taking pictures of him as he went. It wasn't like people hadn't done the same before his identity was revealed, but the occasional shout of "Miles!" was new and disorientating every time.

It was no time at all before he was landing in Mrs. Parker's backyard. He paused at the entrance of the shed, blinking away images of Sandman filling the space, but pushed himself forward regardless.

Sandman had slunk off after his fight with Miles: no one had seen him since. Even if he was still around, his boss was out of the picture. He had no reason to come after Miles, nor had he seemed to want to, even when instructed to kill him.

As the platform descended, Miles spotted Mrs. Parker sitting at the computer, a cup of tea in hand. "Good to see you, Miles," she greeted.

"Good to be here," he returned easily, stepping off of the platform before it reached the bottom. "I have something to show you."

Mrs. Parker raised an eyebrow expectantly, leaning back in her chair. Miles took a slow deep breath, taking off his webshooters and putting them down on the computer desk.

"This is, like, really weird," he warned. "Weirder than there being other spider people."

And with that, he thwipped a web across the room. When he hadn't heard Mrs. Parker remark on his new power, he glanced over at her. She hardly seemed shocked. Instead, she slowly sipped at her tea.

"Um, I have organic webs now?" Miles prompted, lifting his wrist up higher, the web still attached to it.

"So you do," Mrs. Parker agreed.

Miles huffed, releasing the web. "This is weird, right? You- you don't think this is weird?"

"It is odd," Mrs. Parker said, putting her tea down. "Have you tested them?"

"I was- I was kind of hoping you'd help with that? I haven't even told my parents," Miles sighed, picking at a stray thread on his costume.

Mrs. Parker smiled, "I think we can do that."

And test it they did. By the end, Miles had learned a lot more about his spinnerets. Chemically, it was incredibly similar to the artificial webs Peter had originally come up with, which wasn't entirely surprising since Peter's had been based on spider webs.

Vitally, though, his webs could not only withstand his venom strike's better than the artificial ones ever could - they could also conduct electricity through them. Immediately he was salivating at how much easier fights could be. If he could web someone at a distance, he could also venom strike them.

The webs were strong, too. They were weaker than the artificial ones and disintegrated quicker, but they could hold his weight. Already they were brainstorming ideas for how to integrate his spinnerets with the webshooters, with quick changes depending on the situation.

Knowing he had his spinnerets, though, that he would never be defenseless, it scratched an itch that had been grating on him.

He had a bigger itch to scratch, though. One that was arguably more urgent.

"Did you ever set up a… system, with Peter," Miles asked softly, sitting up on the wall above Mrs. Parker's workstation as he turned a webshooter over in his hand, "some way to let each other know that you were okay?"

Mrs. Parker stilled from where she had been sketching some new designs for the webshooter. "We had one," she said.

Miles hated pressing on a bruise, but: "I- I really scared them when I had my… breakdown. I know they worried that I had been kidnapped, again. I need some way to let them know I'm okay, and I know they're okay."

Mrs. Parker's lips pressed into a firm line. She took a deep breath in and nodded. "I have some designs sketched up from before. We can integrate a heart monitor into your suit so those with access can check on you. Separately, we can hide a button in your suit where if you press it, it will send out your coordinates."

He hesitated, a question bubbling forth that he knew he had to ask but almost didn't want to know. "Did you have it when…"

"No," Mrs. Parker said, not looking up at him.

Miles glanced away, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"We had decided against it," May explained after a long moment. "There was too much risk that someone could hack into the system and reveal our locations."

"You didn't want anyone to figure out your secret identities," Miles guessed. Something he didn't have to worry about, anymore.

"I would… take it all back, just to have him back," Mrs. Parker whispered, so quiet he wouldn't have heard it if not for his enhanced senses.

"I'm sorry," Miles said again, but this time he wasn't apologizing for opening old wounds. This time he was apologizing for not acting sooner, for his cowardice to act when Peter had needed him. He was the first in a slowly growing list of people he could have saved but hadn't: Peter, Uncle Aaron, the man from the facility. They all served as marks against his heart - tallied with the people he had killed.

Owl was the first he knew for certain was buried six feet under because of him - or maybe more accurately lurking at the bottom of the Hudson.

Mrs. Parker took a deep breath. "No," she breathed out. "It wasn't your fault. Peter and I knew what we were getting into."

Miles folded his arms, leaning back. "Yeah," he said, noncommittally.

"Right," she said suddenly, standing up straight. "You need a new suit."

He welcomed the change of conversation. "I have some changes I want to make, I- I want something new."

Mrs. Parker gave him a knowing grin. "The floor is yours."

Miles slipped down from the wall, striding over to the fabric closest. Mrs. Parker made no move to join him, simply watching him. Miles paused in digging out the blue fabric, glancing back.

"Yeah?" He prompted.

"I think it's about time I give you unlimited access to this place," Mrs. Parker said. Her eyes were distant, seeing him without really looking at him. Like she was stuck in her memories.

"Really?"

She blinked and looked away. "I'm not cut out for all this… excitement anymore. I think it's time this old girl moved somewhere sunnier."

Miles couldn't help but look around at the spider lair. Down the bottom, it was well lit up, but high up in the rafters it was dark. He knew this lair well, but he had never let himself think about it too closely.

But as he took the time to really look, he could see the dust that had settled on every surface that wasn't regularly used. It had only been maintained for his benefit, to help him transition into being New York's new Spider-Man.

For Mrs. Parker, though, this place only reminded her of all she had lost.

Rolling out the fabric for his new suit, a design already in mind, he understood that — the need to discard the old for the new as if to shed away old skin.

He paused in place, meeting Mrs. Parker's eyes. "I'm ready now," he reassured. "I can face this. I'll keep his legacy strong."

Mrs. Parker's kind eyes searched his very soul. "I know you will."


Swinging home in the new suit, he arched into a swing flying higher than he had in months.

It was like all the weights that had dragged him down were finally gone, allowing him to reach new heights. There were no stray grains of sand to dig into his skin, no dried blood to stain the suit. It smelled new too - like a new car.

The small hidden breathing apparatus in his mask helped with that, filtering the chronically bad smells of New York.

Miles didn't mind the photos he knew people were taking, reveling in their gazes. It was a good design, and he knew it.

It was all the old parts made new.

It was his graffiti spider on his back, a reflection of his hasty leap of faith. It was his suit, the minimalist black emboldened by the red running from his hands and down his sides. It was Peter, in the 3D blue layered below all the red. It was the deep purple hidden within his spider lenses - a detail you would miss without looking for it.

It was all the parts of himself stitched together in one suit, ready to face a new era of his life.

It was his.