"Hey! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just resting."
"Can't you get up?"
"Yeah." Peter laughed, an ironic, self-deprecating laugh. "Yeah, I always get up." Wheezing coughs cut him off. "The coughing's probably not a good sign."
The sound of footsteps had them both looking up. A distant 'find them, now,' made them pay attention.
"Listen, we gotta team up here. We don't have that much time. This override key is the only way to stop the collider. Swing up there, use this key, push the button, and blow it up. You need to hide your face; you don't tell anyone who you are." Peter squeezed his hand tighter. "No one can know. He's got everyone in his pocket."
"What?"
"If he turns the machine on again, everything you know will disappear. Your family, everyone, everyone." Peter pulled him closer. "Promise me you'll do this?"
There was a beat, a pause, a moment of hesitation. "I promise."
"Go. Destroy the collider. I'll come and find you." Another cough racked Peter's frame, but he waved them off anyway. "It's going to be okay." It was anyone's guess whether that reassurance was for him or them.
There was barely a moment of silence before a voice cut through it. "Tombstone. We're done with tests. Get that thing ready to go again and soon." When the scientist scurried away, Fisk called after them. "Run faster. These guys are weak."
Fisk turned their attention to Spider-Man, strolling up to him. "I'd say it's nice to see you again, Spider-Man. But it's not."
"Hey, Kingpin. How's business?"
"Booming!" Kingpin laughed once before ripping off the mask, bearing Spider-Man's face to his enemy.
"Ah, that's a no-no." Peter barely paused at the reveal. "This might open a black hole under Brooklyn. It can't be worth the risk."
Kingpin leaned in closer, voice hushed. "It's not always about the money, Spider-Man."
The Prowler stepped forward, his claws extended and threatening. "Don't you want to know what I saw in there?" Peter asked, frantic.
Kingpin lifted a hand, halting the Prowler's menacing steps. "Wait."
"I know what you're trying to do. And it won't work. They're gone."
There was a pause, heavy and weighted. Suddenly, in a flash of fury, Kingpin's fists came down hard on Spider-Man's body.
His chest collapsed with a sickeningly wet crunch.
A blow that no one could survive.
Kingpin straightened back up, breathing heavily. Spider-Man had gone limp, his eyes closed, yet his face was far from peaceful as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
He stilled his chest and his trembling fists, looking down at his long-time foe with a dismissive air. "Get rid of the body."
Fighting for every breath, hindered and shallow, he ached completely and wholly.
When he tried to open his eyes, the dim light was excruciating, pain like a drill going straight through his skull. The world swirled around him, and he clenched his eyes against it.
He was being dragged by the scruff of his suit, his captor's fingers at the back of his neck cold and uncaring.
He tried to open his eyes again, knowing that this was his last chance to escape because he had to- he had to… There was a trail of blood he was leaving on the dusty ground. Smeared in a gruesome trail.
"I ….. …. …. insisted .. give …. over .. … scientists," a voice said, gravelly like they smoked twenty packs a day.
He tried to move his hands, stick to the ground, anything, but his body wasn't cooperating. He couldn't let a scientist get at him. He couldn't…
"... 'bout his powers. .. …. … figure ..'em out, well, ….. got … strongest army … ….. ever hope for," a second person said.
He managed to stick to the ground, the palms of his hands holding on with all the strength his weakened body could manage. The hand holding him jolted, trying to tug him further, and vividly cursed.
"Oi! Lab guy! He's not dead, you idiot!"
There was a flurry of activity, and his spider-sense peaked. He tried to jerk out of the hold on him, but it did nothing.
There was a pinch to his shoulder, and his grip went slack.
"... …. make ….. easier," a third voice said, hushed like they were saying it to themselves and no one else.
There was a second pinch. Despite his struggles to stay above the waves of unconsciousness, he was mercilessly dragged under.
"See, you got the face correct, but its proportions aren't even right. It's an inch shorter than the real deal and-"
"Who cares! No one is going to be focused on that. We need to get something out before morning."
"We could try again-"
"Absolutely not. The Big Man already thinks he's sunk too much into this. Just roll it out so we can perfect it all later."
When he reached the surface of consciousness again, liquid was rising all around him.
Sitting up from his slouched position, he tried to get up, but he couldn't; the pain was too great. It crippled him, making him curl in on himself.
The vividly blue liquid was all he could see. He pressed his palm flat against the glass that surrounded him, trying desperately to stick onto it and use it as leverage to get up. To escape his imminent demise.
It didn't help. Nothing helped. He was hurt. He was maybe even dying. His body was failing him, too weak to make a meaningful attempt to save him.
The liquid reached his neck, and he truly gave up for the first time in his life. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold surface, taking one final breath before the liquid passed his mouth, nose, and finally his head.
A small mercy in the panic, the adrenaline of facing death when he was already severely wounded, was this: he succumbed to unconsciousness at the same time he breathed in the liquid. He would not be awake to die.
Waking up was unexpected.
Waking up still in the liquid, his world tinted light blue by it, was even more unexpected.
He tried to inhale, in shock, in surprise, and realized he could. The liquid circulated in him like air would, a startingly discovery that didn't prevent his first instinct of panicking.
Ribs expanding and contracting erratically, his eyes darted around him, but all he could see was his own murky reflection staring back at him. He turned in the liquid, but there wasn't anything except his mirrored self.
His hand reached out to his reflection, pressing against the surface, and his knuckles caught his eye. Not because something was wrong with them, no, because they were healed.
He brought his other hand up, looking at both of them. Unblemished skin, wholly and completely healed.
In what admittedly should have been his first action, he took a moment to mentally check his whole body. From head to toe, to his utter shock, he was not in pain. There were no wounds, no cuts, nothing.
Even breathing in the liquid - it should have been painful, but it wasn't. It wasn't comfortable, but it gave him all the oxygen his body needed.
It wasn't technology he was familiar with.
That was what truly scared him.
There were two possibilities, and neither one was comforting. Either he had been in this liquid long enough to heal from blunt force trauma, or this liquid was so advanced as to heal him within a short span of time.
Neither one meant he was with allies.
He pressed his palm flat to the glass, gripping it so he could move his whole body closer. He cupped his hands, peering through the glass to see beyond the tube.
The room was dark, but he recognized immediately what this room was. It was a laboratory—microscopes and tubes and sterile equipment galore.
It was all he needed to know.
He leaned back, clenching his hands into fists. He pressed it against the glass, centering it, before arching back and punching it as hard as he could.
A tiny spiderweb of cracks formed, and at the same time, the room came to life with red blaring alarms. He was on a deadline.
He arched back. Crack.
People in lab coats and others in tactical gear carrying guns ran into the room, but he didn't let it stop him. Couldn't.
Arched back. Crack.
Gut instinct told him that this would be the best opportunity to escape. Any future attempts would be increasingly difficult. There was a slight sound, like a click, above him.
Arched back… his limbs went sluggish, his fist only softly tapping the cracked glass. Frowning past foggy confusion, he tried to arch back again, but…
But his limbs went slack and his eyes grew heavy. He couldn't power through it. He wanted to cry out in frustration - but the effort to even do that much was too much.
He sank below the waves of consciousness.
"Everything's there, I've double-checked. By my calculations, their brains are identical but they never develop any brain waves."
"Brain dead. All of them."
"If I believed in things having souls, I'd hazard a guess that none of them had one."
There was a pause, a lull that had him sinking back down again. But before he did, they started talking again.
"Well, if the goal is to have an army, we wouldn't have to condition someone already on our side."
"Meaning?"
"If we approach this from a different angle, instead of struggling to make one of him and then condition them to work for us, we could recruit someone to have his powers transplanted."
"Huh. That could work. We've hit a dead end with this avenue anyway. I'll propose it to the higher-ups and see what they think."
The lights flickered once, enough stimulation to have him rising above the choppy waters of unconsciousness.
He blinked his eyes open, struggling against the weight of his eyelids, in time to see the lights flicker again, then a third time. They stuttered, and all at once, they flickered off.
Even so much as lifting his head proved too much, let alone trying to lift his arms or attempting to escape. He was weak, and the well of helplessness was difficult not to succumb to.
All he could do was lean forward, leaning his forehead onto the cool surface of the glass.
It was because he was pressed against the glass, the glass that had no cracks from his previous attempt, that he saw what happened next. There was the muted sound of gunshots slowly growing closer, louder with every moment.
Then, in a blur of action, the door on the far side of the room was kicked down, and black shapes, guns in hand, stormed the room. A white figure in front of him - a scientist with a lab coat that he hadn't seen before - bent down and grabbed their own gun.
They were too slow.
Muzzle flashes lit the room in blinding light, the gunshots loud, and he flinched away from the glass. But it was over almost as soon as it had started.
He hesitated, unsure whether he had been rescued or not. Whether these new people were friends or foes, or something in between.
The black shapes slowly moved further into the room, circling him but more interested in the bodies of the scientists. Confirming that they were dead, they started to shift through the folders nearby.
They came into focus the closer they got - but that barely gave him any new information. They were dressed head to toe in body armor, kitted out for a raid. There were no logos, nothing that could identify them.
He heard a tap from behind him, and he slowly shifted in the liquid to lock eyes with one of the gunmen. They startled back, letting out a yelp of alarm.
Pressing forward, he put his palm flat on the glass. The man only stared at him for a long moment before they grinned.
It wasn't a nice smile.
They dug into one of their pockets and pulled out a phone, rapidly typing something into their phone before they pressed it to their ear.
"You won't believe what I've found."
The man had moved off quickly, talking animatedly into his phone - the last thing he had caught him saying was how an "owl" would want to know about this.
The pins and needles feeling slowly dissipated with every passing moment, and the strength slowly returned to his limbs. Yet, with men with guns in the dark room, he knew he had to take his time.
Time, however, was against him.
Just as he pressed a fist against the glass, just as he readied himself to attempt to crack the glass and escape - the lights flickered on.
Like a blanket, warmth seeped into his limbs and slackened them. All the tension in his body was drained, like whatever was keeping him asleep had been turned up to eleven.
His energy gone, he sunk into unconsciousness again.
There was something solid beneath him, something tangible at his back.
Coughs wracked him, his eyes fluttering open with a dizzying suddenness.
His spider-sense was crooning, a pressure in his skull that told him to move- but he couldn't- his limbs refused to obey him.
Someone grabbed at his legs, dragging him forward and further onto the ground. He lashed out just as quickly, but in his weakened state, they easily restrained him.
Head turned to the side, he still helplessly hacked up the liquid that had been his home for-
For-
How long had he been in the tube?
A sudden sharp prick of a needle to his bicep and he was out again.
"Honestly, is it so hard to organize your notes? I swear they did this just to spite us."
"They might have. Most of this is just plain chicken scratch."
A long pause.
"Hang on, have a look at this one."
"'Genetic Transplants: Practical Applications.' That is the broadest title they could have ever come up with-"
"Yeah, yeah, but look at this section. Read it."
Another pause.
"They got this bit wrong, but I know how to fix it. Yeah, we could use this. This guy's DNA is near junk and would take a lot more time to figure out, probably because he has so many interlocking powers, but if we got a simpler power…"
"Don't we have that fire-breathing guy? All his mutations would have been confined to his esophagus…"
"We could develop this, make all this useful. Man, Owl is going to be so happy with us."
There was a squeaking sound, rhythmic and constant. It was enough to stir him into paying attention, but his eyes remained closed. They were too heavy.
"Ha! You got stuck cleaning the dead guy's tank."
"Not dead enough," the closer voice said with a sigh. The squeaking sound stopped. "At least I'm not Jerry."
"Poor Jerry wants to tear his hair out at this point. He did make one breakthrough, at least."
"Yeah?"
"He perfected that liquid. Even turned it into a gas. I've heard a rumor that they'll try and get the other one, too."
"When we still haven't figured out this dude?"
"I know, I know, but the dude on top thinks that even having him unable to stop our base operations is useful, too."
"Doesn't it take an insane amount of our budget just to get this liquid? Seems insane to do that twice."
"I don't know. They'll probably put the little guy with the others until they have built another one. Sourcing double that blue stuff might take a while, though."
"I guess they can do more exploratory stuff on them. Can't do that easily on him."
Their voices started to fade as they moved away.
"Pros and cons to both, I guess."
Waking up, eyes fluttering open, he was startled to see someone in front of the tube.
They were leaning against the glass, back turned to him.
"There's no more Spider-Man to stop us. We have him. It was so much easier than expected, too."
A shiver ran down his spine, but even the small amount of clarity, of consciousness, granted to him had sapped him of all his energy. Even though he wanted to hear more, he fell asleep.
"All these wasted resources, all these man-hours. And yet, we haven't had any successful transfers. We're missing something, and his little buddy isn't providing any breakthroughs."
Smack.
A fist against the glass jolted him awake, his eyes fluttering open.
The person attached to said fist was breathing heavily, glaring at him through the opaque barrier between them.
The man stared him down for a long moment before he finally spoke. "He escaped. The little twerp is gone."
They looked away, tapping their fist against the glass once, twice, lighter than before. "That's okay. We still have you."
With a grin, they looked back at him, pressing a button on a panel next to the tube he hadn't noticed before.
"We'll figure you out eventually," was the last thing he heard before he was out once again.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
"Did you hear?"
Squeak, squeak-
"Hear what?"
The squeaking stopped.
"The little dude is working with Fisk now! There's no way we'll get him back now."
"Do you think he has any idea about all this?"
"He must do. I heard that Sandman has already hospitalized some of our guys for even attempting to get close to him. I bet he's terrified of us having an army of him."
"At the rate we're going? That'll never happen. Their cells are totally uncooperative, let alone their DNA."
"Yeah, well, don't let Owl hear you say that. He's throwing his money at this whole project, and I'm not going to tell him that it's a money pit."
"Me neither. I'm enjoying this easy money."
Squeak, squeak, squeak…
"I can't believe this. We've known his identity for how long, and Kraven is the one who gets to reveal it?"
"It was so lame too. 'Now I get to face you,' like, at least unmask him first. If the little dude was smart, he would spin it in his favor. 'That's not my identity, totally, for real, he was just lying.'"
A sigh. "What does it matter anyway? He's probably dead. Our boss is dead, and we're about to run out of funding."
"I've already started rationing this guy's drugs. So much for getting rid of our spider problem, right?"
Left alone in the tank, drifting, he instinctively knew that things were changing.
The pins and needles began to recede, slowly, achingly, but it was happening.
Exhaustion weighed him down and kept him from waking up, but with time, he would gain the strength to break the glass again.
He didn't know what would come next, but he knew the most important part was just getting out of this containment.
Awake, fist pressed to the glass, he would have sighed if he could have when a shape walked into the room.
They barely even glanced at him as they rolled a large container into the room, ducking down behind one of the control panels for what felt like ages.
Debating whether to attempt to break the glass anyway, with how bone-weary and tired he still felt, he ran out of time to make a decision when the person came back up to the glass.
"We have new funding," they said, a grin on their face. Their voice wasn't familiar. Dread pooled in his stomach. "I would suggest saying goodbye to the world. Our new client is very willing to keep you out of their business and has a deep wallet."
A button was pressed, and all the progress he had made vanished.
He would have kicked himself for all his hesitation if he had the energy to do it.
A hand touched him and maneuvered him onto his side. One leg was pushed forward, his knees bent. A hand was extended, and the other was bent and placed under his head.
Recovery position. It was familiar from all his time in his second job.
When the hand brushed hair out of his face, he heard their startled gasp.
That was enough to drag him further awake, his hand twitching, and he coughed. Liquid sloshed out of his mouth, and only quick movement from the other person prevented him from swallowing it back down.
He forced his eyes open, finding an unfamiliar masked face staring back at him. Their black mask had the faintest etchings of webbing, their white bug-like eyes framed in red.
Even with the lenses in the way, he knew they had locked eyes when they went rigid.
"Peter," they whispered, their voice thin and strained.
He wanted to remark that they shouldn't wear his name out, to make any kind of dumb joke. But the coughing, opening his eyes, even those small movements had left him bone tired.
It didn't help that his spider-sense was blissfully quiet for the first time in a long time. He had almost forgotten what it was like to not be in a constant state of low-grade danger.
He sunk back down, eyes fluttering closed.
"Miguel," a voice said right by his ear. The volume had him wanting to wince away, but there were hands curled around him. Keeping him tucked against their chest, his head lolling on what he assumed was their shoulder.
"It's Miles from earth 1610C. I need your help."
There was a whirring sound, and footsteps grew closer. Another pair of hands wrapped around his body - empty air, a cold spot forming where he had been tucked against the first's body - and then someone bigger was holding him.
Their chest was bulkier, more muscular, and admittedly more comfortable to lean against. It made it difficult to stay aware, to listen to the two people talking about him.
And he knew they were talking about him, but their words jumbled and didn't make sense to his tired brain.
All he needed to know was that he was safe and cared for. He let himself drift back to sleep.
Instinctively, he knew someone was hovering beside him, their body looming above him.
He couldn't muster the will to open his eyes, so instead, he listened.
"Lyla, what Spider-DNA is there?"
A whirring sound, followed by a click. "1610 C's. He's not from another world."
"Not a stray Peter then. That would explain the lack of glitching. Pull up the report on his DNA."
There was another long pause. "Lyla, let Miles know."
"Aye-aye, Captain."
They walked away, and he let himself fall asleep again.
"I want to be there."
"No," a familiar voice interrupted, and the owner of the first voice huffed but didn't argue. "And Peter, you're aren't allowed either."
"Sue me," another voice spoke up, dragging out the words like a petulant child, "for wanting to meet the perfect version of myself."
"He's not perfect. He's just… younger," the first voice protested, but their voice was quiet. Almost embarrassed.
"Plus, he's blonde!" the third voice continued, as if the first had never spoken up. "Mr. Model over there will fit right into your funky little world, Mr. Celebrity."
The first's voice was decidedly more hostile when they snapped, "Quit it, Peter. I know 'original timeline' is around here somewhere. Go bother him."
"Okay, grouchy. I get it. You're stressed."
The familiar voice cut in before the other two could start bickering. "Stop talking, both of you. You're giving me a headache. He won't know me. I will evaluate his mental state when he wakes up."
He would rather it was the familiar voice, anyway. He seemed more level-headed than the other two. He let himself sink back down, reassured.
When he woke up next, his head felt clearer than it had in a long time. It was like a fog was lifting layer by layer. Opening his eyes and staring at the tiles above him felt like it took less effort.
There was a bed below him, the mattress plush and comfortable, soothing his sore muscles. He resisted the urge to turn over and go back to sleep.
There was someone else in the room with him, too. Turning his head, he managed to get a better look at his visitor.
Broad-shouldered and a sculpted jaw, in his weakened state, he knew he wouldn't be able to beat them in a fight. He could have stood a chance if it was a scrawny scientist, but this guy clearly liked to hit the gym. They were in a white, high-collared shirt and gray slack pants; something about it made him label it as 'futuristic,' but he couldn't place why.
The man observed him just as closely, and he knew that they were waiting for him to make the first move.
"Where am I?" he finally croaked out, straining to say even those words with vocal cords that hadn't had to work in so long.
"New York," they answered, but he knew they were being purposefully vague; there was something more there. "My name is Miguel. Can you tell me what you remember last?"
Their voice was familiar. It was the level-headed evaluation guy. "You were deciding who would assess me. That's what you're doing now."
"Correct. Can you tell me your name and date of birth?"
Yeah, that wasn't happening. He pressed his lips together into a thin line.
Miguel paused, an eyebrow raising as he quickly understood his defiance. "Your name is Peter Parker, but most people know you as Spider-Man. I know your date of birth, but I want to confirm that you know it."
"...August 10th." A yawn broke through, and he frowned. He had barely been awake any amount of time, yet he could feel the familiar weight of sleep beginning to drag him back under.
Miguel seemed to notice Peter's confusion, too. "The drugs you were being given had a strong, long-lasting effect. You will be kept here for a few more days while you sleep it off, and then you should be able to head home. You will be disturbed as little as possible to help with this."
Miguel stood up, clearly satisfied by their small assessment. "Understand that you are safe and surrounded by people like you."
Peter wanted to ask more questions and know what he had missed, but the urge to sleep overpowered his desire to keep Miguel around for the answers.
"Have you checked your world yet?"
"I may have bribed Lyla into telling me where he was," a second voice said, but it was so similar to the first that Peter knew he would have trouble differentiating the two. "There's no OWL in my world, and Alchemax moved overseas. There was only a forest where that warehouse was."
"Butterfly effect?"
"Butterfly effect. No OWL, no Peter. It does save me a headache."
"I guess OWL was good for one thing."
"Only one? You have spinnerets. That's useful. And now Peter? I wish this had happened in my universe."
"To get this, you first need to become me. A-k-a, no secret identity. It's not a great exchange."
"I don't know, it might be a good switch. You can take my place and get chased around by Spider Society while you try to save our Dad, oh, and get trapped in another universe glitching with an evil counterpart."
"Yeah, and instead get kidnapped and almost starve yourself to death." In a lighter tone, they asked, "I thought Prowler Miles helped you out?"
"Yeah, Milzo helped me out in the end. I think he kind of hates me, though."
"Might be our whole 'stealing his spider bite' thing. Doesn't he hate that nickname? If anything, I'm more your twin, your 'Mellizo,' than he is."
"He's not punched me over it yet, so. Until he does, he's Milzo."
"Touché."
"Mileses!" a new voice greeted, and there was the sound of some light scuffling.
"Not so loud! He's still asleep-"
"He ain't." It was definitely a British accent, thick and heavy. "I've got to take this one away; you enjoy saying 'ello to that one, yeah?"
Cover blown, Peter opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was still asleep or something was wrong with his eyes.
Two near-identical people looked back at him. Even their outfits were so similar it took him a moment to pick out the differences. The one on the right had a faint scar on the left side of his face, running from his cheekbone into his hairline. Must be an evil twin thing…
They both wore skin-tight black costumes with large red spiders on their chest. The one with the scar, though, had blue outlining it - creating a 3D-like effect.
In between them was a nightmare of colors. It was almost enough of a headache to make him want to close his eyes. "We'll see you around," Eyesore said, dragging the non-evil twin away.
"Wait-" the evil twin tried to call back after them, but they were already off. They stared so longingly after them that Peter almost felt sorry for them.
They took a deep breath, closing their eyes, and then their eyes snapped back open to look at Peter - seeming to remember themselves and what they were doing.
Approaching him, tension in every line of their body, he sat on one of the chairs beside his bed. "Hi, Peter." They swallowed, straightening their back before asking, "Do you… do you remember me?"
Peter took a closer look at them for the first time, trying to think about where he might know them from. It hit him a moment later. If you added a bit of baby fat, a sprinkling of innocence, they would be-
"You're just like me." "I don't want to be."
"Can't you get up?"
"Promise me you'll do this?" "I promise."
"You… you have spider-powers. You were at the collider," Peter said slowly. It explained the spider-themed costume he was wearing, though he had hoped that he would have been able to guide them in designing their first one.
They looked older, too, but Peter quickly lost his baby fat after his own bite. It would explain why they looked so different.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's me. My name is Miles Morales."
"And you stopped the collider?" Peter asked.
A small smile. "Yeah, I did - with a bit of help. Kingpin's plan was stopped, and- and he was put in jail. He was out for a bit, but now he's back in. New York is safe."
Peter sighed, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Good, good. That's good."
Miles looked down at his hands, then back up, looking him directly in the eyes. They braced themself like they were preparing to rip a bandaid off. "You've been gone awhile. I've been Spider-Man for two years. You've been… presumed dead for two years."
Peter studied his face for a long moment, how nervous he was, but it didn't seem like he was lying. The words took a second to process, as if his brain had lagged. "Everyone thinks I'm dead?"
"Yeah." Miles broke eye contact first. "Yeah, I um. I thought you were a clone. I watched Kingpin kill you. There was a body and everything. It would make things easier if you were a clone. But you're my world- our world's Peter Parker."
His eyes stung, but he ignored that. "Aunt May? MJ?"
"They- they thought you were dead too. I've told them that you're back. May is back in New York, but MJ is having trouble organizing flights. May said she was in the middle of a film shoot, and it's been hard for her to pull the strings she needs to."
Peter looked up at the ceiling, trying to process all he was learning. It was difficult. "Everyone thought Spider-Man was dead."
"They thought that… Peter Parker was dead," Miles quietly corrected.
He couldn't cry in front of this kid. He let out a slow breath. "The world knows who I am?"
"Yeah, they do. That's- it's okay though. The world knows my identity too," Miles tried to reassure.
"What?" Peter would have sat up if he had the strength to. "I told you to hide your face!"
"I did!" Miles threw his hands up in a placating gesture. "It's complicated. I'll- I promise I'll explain it later."
Peter pinched his nose, determined to take slow breaths to ease the emotions bubbling inside him.
In a quieter voice, Miles continued on. "Miguel says you can leave soon and- and you'll see May then. We can sort everything else out later."
A musical beep interrupted them, and Miles glanced down at his watch. Peter wanted to wrinkle his nose at it - the green and yellow horribly clashing against the black, red and blue of the rest of his costume - let alone the spikes it had.
"I want to stay and explain," Miles said, getting up - still not looking at Peter in favor of whatever was on his watch. "I guess- I probably have told you a lot already. It's a lot to take in. I have a class to get to, so I'll see you later."
Miles stepped towards the door, finally meeting Peter's eyes again. "I'm glad you're alive, though. And, uh, for what it's worth? I'm sorry I didn't save you sooner."
With those parting words, Miles left Peter to mull over all he had learned.