Five Hours After The Death Match

Peter stared at his blood-soaked hands.

Miles's blood.

He had done this.

This was his fault.

Why had he been so stupid?

He closed his eyes, sighing, resisting the urge to rub his face in a vain attempt to stave off sleep. He didn't need dried blood smeared on his face while he waited on news about Miles.

He had to know if this mistake was permanent.

Every part of him ached, his various wounds stung, and his ribs throbbed to a marching rhythm. Someone had given him a drink and put a watch around his wrist, and then he had been left alone, stewing in the room's darkness - some staff room, he presumed.

Why hadn't he given the mask back? It had been sopettyanddumb. He hadwantedto prove a point about stardom and how the kid was a celebrity. They didn't need all these stupid trinkets to bulk out their suits. He knew the crutch they could be. But really, something dark and ugly inside of himself needed to be right aboutsomething. Getting rid of the mask that concealed so many of the kid's facial expressions, which made the challenging task of reading him nearly impossible, had been a bonus.

This wasn't meant to happen.

A tear pooled in the corner of his eye. He blinked, and it slipped down his cheek, slowly trickling until it pooled under his jaw. He didn't wipe it away.

How could he look Miles's Mom in the eye when he knew it was his fault they were kidnapped? His Dad? His little sister? He hadn't even met her, and now he had to help break the news that her older brother might never come home again.

How could he face Aunt May?

The door to the small room opened, and light flooded in from the outside. Peter shielded his eyes, squinting to try and make out who it was.

"What are you still doing here?" a familiar voice asked in lieu of a greeting, and his throat constricted.

"Miles?" he whispered, choking up on the name.

Miles paused, tensing. "Not the one you're hoping for," the doppelganger said, glancing away. "I'm known by Smiles."

He swallowed a hurt sound, his heart squeezing. The door closed, and he finally got a good look at Miles's copy. It definitely wasn't the one he knew. For one thing, they weren't grievously injured - bar a bandage wrapped around his left elbow, nor did they have Miles's distinctive facial scar. Smiles wore casual clothes, and a hoodie was tied around his waist. He didn't even have a Spider-Man suit underneath. Maybe they had come here on a day off.

Leaning back against the wall, the doppelganger seemed to wilt when he explained, "He's still in surgery."

"Is he going to be okay?" Peter asked.

Smiles's eyes narrowed, a fight brewing in his eyes that crumpled into dust just as quickly. It struck him, then, how even when Miles had been explaining the previous year… his eyebrows hadn't pinched, his chin hadn't wobbled. The one he knew had mastered his poker face. This one hadn't.

"I don't know," they mumbled, voice watery, rubbing away the tears that spilled with the back of his hand. "They, um, brought me in so I could donate some blood. It was… it was bad."

Peter flinched, curling in on himself. His mouth ran anyway. "You wouldn't need to run compatibility tests since you're the same person, right?"

"Yeah. He needed my healing factor." Smiles scuffed his feet against the carpet, fidgeting. "I hope it helps."

"I'm sure Miles will appreciate it," Peter tried to reassure Smiles, plastering on a smile. It didn't work - Smiles shrugged, drawing himself in tighter. Peter sighed, giving up. "Not that I don't appreciate the company, but I don't think you came here to update me on him."

Smiles's eyes flicked away, a tell. He folded his arms and cleared his throat. "Do you really think he shouldn't be Spider-Man?"

"I…" Peter's words failed him. He struggled to cobble together an answer for agonizingly long seconds, yet all he could say was; "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Smiles demanded, drawing up to his full height, suddenly full of life. "You tear his suit in front of theworld,and you can't say why?"

"I shouldn't have done it, but he wouldn'texplainanything.I filled in the blanks with the wrong pieces. I thought he was a murderer," Peter snapped, his hands curling into fists.

"And you wereperfectand didn't try to avenge your Uncle, right?" Smiles snarled.

Peter was out of his seat, looming above Miles's poorer copy before his mind had caught up to his action. "Don't youdaresay his name."

"Why?" Smiles challenged, jutting his chin out, unfazed by the barely leashed violence ebbing from Peter. "Why was that any different? Was it because you were getting revenge for someone else? Was the torture inflicted on himnot enoughof a reason for you?"

"What do you even know about him?" Peter spat before he realized how illogical the question was. "I mean, you don't know what happened to him."

"I know more than you do," Smiles said, eyes narrowed. "You have no empathy for someone who almost starved himself to death."

"That's not- he didn't-" Peter cut himself off, clenching his jaw. He forced himself to take an unsteady step back. "You don't need to be hyperbolic to get your point across; I know I screwed up."

Smiles bared his teeth, his lips twisted into a disgusted sneer. "Do you? I don't think you know what you've done to us. You don't understandanythingabout us."

Peter tipped his head to the side. "Have you ever gotten someone killed?"

The doppelganger swallowed, something guarded clouding his eyes. "Unless you countyouand my Uncle Aaron… no."

"Then I don't have a problem with you," Peter said with a shrug, reminded of how stiff his shoulders were from the movement. "I have a problem withmyworld's Miles. He uses his fame for his own gain and won't take responsibility for his actions."

"What? Accountability for what? For Owl?" Smiles asked, his face twisted in righteous indignation. "What the hell kind of 'accountability' do you expect him to take? What atonement would be good enough for you? Wasn't he punishedenoughby losing his secret identity?"

"He chose to take his mask off-"

"When?!"Smiles shouted, jutting a hand out. "He woke up without it on! Owl knew who he was from the start!"

Peter's eyebrows furrowed, a retort fizzling out on his lips.

"Stop making assumptions about us- is your skull too thick to absorb anything that doesn't fit your narrative?" Smiles challenged.

"Are you calling me stupid?" Peter growled.

"If the shoe fits."

CRACK.

Smiles flinched, staring with wide, haunted eyes at the fist buried in the wall next to his head, his arms up to defend himself.

Silence stretched. Neither of them moved, bar Smiles's rapid hitched breaths - his chest rising and falling as quickly as a cornered rabbit. Peter closed his eyes, hating the satisfaction wrapping around his heart, drawing in measured breaths - a desperate attempt to reign in the burning fire consuming him from the inside out.

"What is wrong with you?" Smiles asked, his voice barely a whisper. He felt the air shift as the doppelganger dropped his arms down to his sides.

Stepping back, he absently massaged his knuckles, unable to look them in the eyes. "I don't… I didn't mean to do that."

"Tell that to the dent in the wall," he snarked, but Peter could hear the tremor in Smiles's voice. "Is this how you've treated him?"

"No." Smiles stared at him for an unnervingly long moment, scrutinizing him, and Peter folded. "Sort of… You two have a bad habit of getting under my skin."

"Are you serious?" the doppelganger demanded, disgusted. "I don't care if we do! You'll changenow,or I'llmakeyou."

Peter's first instinct was to laugh, and his second was to try and call the kids bluff. But the pure tension in Smiles's body told him he was serious - if the bubbling bio-electricity under his skin wasn't warning enough.

Though both of them were small, he knew Miles's frame hid the pure power he possessed. Not everyone could withstand a punch from the Rhino. It had taken a long time for Peter's own body to begin to reflect his strength.

Taking a deep breath, Peter gave up, sitting on the couch. "I'm… glad he has someone in his corner."

Shock crossed Smiles's expression before he schooled it into something more serious. "And why aren'tyou?"

He didn't have a good answer. Instead, he shrugged.

Smiles rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You don't understand us. You don't know what this means to us."

"I'll stay out of his way, okay?" Peter offered.

"Yeah, probably for the best."

Peter hesitated before asking, "Has anyone updated his parents?"

"I don't know," Smiles mumbled, wilting. "I don't think so. They're probably waiting for… an outcome. It's not like they'd let them sit by his bedside."

Peter blinked, then frowned. "Excuse me?"

"The Spider Society is too dangerous for those without powers," the counterpart explained with a tired shrug. "It's Miguel's rules."

"That kid needs his family," Peter snarled, standing up. Miles had only one wish when he was dying, and Peter would make damn sure he fulfilled it. "Where is Miguel?"

"What, you're going to take him on single-handedly?" Smiles mocked him, a bitter undertone lacing his words. "He could take your watch. Then you'll lose access to thiswholesociety."

That's what the stupid watch did? Smiles wasn't wearing one. Whatever. "Do I look like I care?"

Without waiting for an answer, he stormed past Smiles, the door opening to reveal the futuristic landscape. The technological marvels this place offered were everything he could live without. Yet he paused, his eyes darting around, his anger losing steam with the realization that he didn't know where to go.

"You're… going to bat for Miles?" Smiles asked, meandering up to his side, disbelief and something like hope in the question.

"It's the least I could do," Peter whispered.

The doppelganger studied him, searching his very soul. Peter met his eyes without flinching. "Huh. Okay. Follow me. I've gotta watch this go down."

Miles twisted into the kick, the perp going down easy. One final web and they were pinned to the wall, squirming but not going anywhere. They opened their mouth to curse him but were silenced by a thwip of his webshooters.

"Have the police been called?" he asked the terrified worker. She had been taking out the trash when she was attacked. She nodded, but the movement was stilted. He softened his body language, trying to put her at ease. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay. Let's get you back inside. You should grab a drink of water," Miles reassured her, gently herding her inside, where a coworker took over assisting them.

"Thank you, Spider-Man," a mustached man with a dirty apron said. Probably the cook. "I didn't think he would follow up on his threats - but here we are. Trying to extort us, can you believe that?"

"People will do anything nowadays." He checked his webshooters, looking for any damage after they had taken a glancing blow from the crook's crowbar. "I was just in the area. Make sure she's okay for me."

"How about you take a break? It feels like I'm seeing you on the news constantly, though you have just finished school, no?" the mustached man commented, bustling him inside. "Come, eat."

Miles's protests fell on deaf; every point shut down as quickly as he raised them. No, really, these were leftovers, yes they had all eaten, he was a growing boy, and it wasn't charity if they were ensuring their local hero was okay - really this was a celebration of his upcoming graduation, until he finally gave in.

With his head on folded arms, Miles was temporarily left to his own devices while they warmed the food up. Now that he wasn't protecting someone and could focus on his surroundings, he recognized it as a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant.

There were various awards, people, and locations across every wall, lovingly dust-free. A framed army medal among them, though he didn't recognize the ribbon. Whoever owned this place had seen and lived a lot.

The victim was typing on their phone, a water bottle in hand, and their coworker spoke to them in hushed tones. No one was paying attention to him. His eyes fluttered closed, slowly losing the war against the urge to sleep.

"Here we are," the mustached man declared, setting down two bowls of pasta and a basket of bread before him. Miles blinked in surprise, sitting up.

"That's- that's too much food," Miles whispered.

"Whatever you don't have now, take home," they insisted, leaving for only a moment before returning with a glass of red wine in hand.

"Right." He lifted a hand up to his mask, but he couldn't make his fingers curl under the hem — his hand frozen in place, a pit of nervous dread in his stomach. He wasn't picture-ready. They would expect him to take his mask off, and he didn't have Peter's filter on him - left with his clothes at home. He would be unprotected against everything if he took it off.

"I promise it's not poisoned," the mustached man joked. Miles flinched, his hand curling into a fist, loosening just as quickly, but the subtle movement was caught. His spider-sense was silent, but that didn't stop the growing pit in his stomach. Their eyes softened. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want to. We can pack it all up, and you can throw it in the first bin you see. It's fine."

"I- I'm sorry," Miles whispered, clenching his eyes shut, choking on the words. "You're being so nice and-"

"No need to apologize," they assured him with a broad wave of his hand, brushing away Miles's apology. "You've had a rough few days. I can't imagine how hard seeing all those villains again was. I'm glad they're locked up and awaiting sentencing."

Miles swallowed down an honest answer. No one wanted to hear his true thoughts in all their ugly glory. They wanted the reassurance that they would be protected, no matter what.

Almost two months since the Death Match and two weeks since he had put the suit back on, and the mask had bound itself to him like nothing had happened. No one had seen through the cracks in his facade - helped by the very mask he wouldn't take off now.

It had helped to have it on at the transfer of villains from Spider Society to jail. It had happened without a hitch, barely a threat thrown in Miles's direction.

Peter had seen his shaking hands but had the common sense not to try to comfort him.

Taking a slow breath, he shrugged nonchalantly. "I've beaten all of them individually. With two of us there, even if they had escaped, it would have been fine."

"Not to mention those other Spider-themed people, right?" The mustached man pressed, a glimmer in his eyes.

"Right," Miles agreed, offering no other information. He shifted in his seat, preparing to leave. "Look, thank you, but I should be on my way-"

They raised their hands in a placating gesture. "No, no. Stay here. I'll leave you to eat in peace. Just know you're always welcome, okay?"

Lowering back down, Miles gave in without much of a fight. He was hungry, and the break would be nice. "Thank you," he tacked on for good measure as he lifted his mask to sit above his nose.

"Anytime," the mustached man said, disappearing into the kitchen.

He was gone before the police arrived.

Miles climbed through his bedroom window, sore, aching, and exhausted. He sat on the ledge, gathering himself together before he tugged his mask off - shuddering at the sand that cascaded down his back.

Running a hand through his hair to try to rid himself of the rest, he sighed, leaning back against the window frame. He needed to grab his med kit from the bathroom. Yet somehow, that distance felt insurmountable - his bed beckoning his name.

He ignored it, pushing through his exhaustion to stand up. He still had to write an email to Empire State University asking to defer starting as long as possible. Even he could admit that he needed a break to sort himself out before he committed to anything more. But first, he had to stop himself from bleeding all over his keyboard.

"What are you doing?!" Dad shouted, and Miles jolted. His door was closed. How did he even know he had gotten home? What had he done?

"I was just looking-" That was a male voice. He hadn't said that. Who the hell was in their house? Was Mama or Billie home?

"Can you notread,Miles?"

Miles opened his door in a rush, confusion and anxiety waging war in his chest. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Smiles. His dimensional other was standing by the kitchen counter, a box sitting on the kitchen counter between him and Dad - who was still in uniform. It had 'fragile' and 'evidence' stamped on its side in red. Smiles looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Miles spoke up as Dad's hand fell to rest on his gun holster. "Hey, Dad, um-"

Dad whirled around, his eyes widening, then narrowed - flicking between them. "One of you needs to explain what's going onright now."

"Smiles?" Miles spoke up. Smiles stared at Dad with a weird expression, jaw hanging half open. He glanced down at his watch, quickly double-checking before saying, "I don't think I got a message from you."

"This was- I was just dropping in to check in on you," Smiles tried to explain, taking a wary step back from Dad, holding his arms behind his back. A nervous chuckle fell from his lips. "Sorry, uh, wait, what do I even call you? Can I call you Dad? You're technically my Dad, but-"

"I don't have two sons," Dad firmly stated, shutting Smiles down. It was like he was trying to cement it for more than just the two of them by saying it out loud."Milesunderstands that he shouldn't go snooping in things that don't belong to him, especially ones pertaining to ongoing criminal investigations."

"What-?"

"That's half our job-"

"Don't let your—" Jeff cut them off, dismissively waving a hand, "—Multiversal friends come over without warning, Miles. Do you understand me?"

Miles swallowed, sharing a glance with Smiles. "Okay. It won't happen again. Sorry, Dad."

Smiles frowned, a disturbed tilt to his expression. "You can't be serious. We're not doing anything bad. Mama- Rio loves having people over."

"And I don't like thieves thinking my home is theirs," Dad snapped, holding his palm out. "Give it back."

A dropped pin would have been as loud as a gunshot, the tension thick enough to cut. Miles clenched his jaw, his eyes burning into Smiles's side. Smiles looked like he had mentally short-circuited. "I didn't steal anything," he eventually mumbled, dropping something circular into Dad's hands. "I was just looking."

"Don't come back," Dad said, his tone icy. He gathered the box and disappeared to his bedroom, a lingering disappointed look bearing down on Miles's neck.

Smiles drew in a hitched breath, gutted, and when Miles put a hand on his shoulder, he flinched. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," he quietly protested. And then firmer. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," Miles whispered, trying to reassure him. "Dad's just- he's been having a hard time. Work's been stressful. Sorry he took it out on you."

"He's never acted like that, ever." Smiles straightened up, folding his arms and composing himself - though his misty eyes gave him away. "But he's… not my Dad. I- I was meant to see ifyouwere okay?"

Miles shrugged. "Yeah."

Smiles raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "And a torn costume and that slash is fine?"

"You should probably leave before Dad gets madder," Miles suggested, heat flooding his cheeks. He turned to leave to grab his medkit from the bathroom, the adrenaline giving him the energy he needed to keep going. He would crash hard when it passed. Smiles kept in step, not taking the hint. "You can come back later if you want."

Smiles leaned against the doorway, watching Miles crouch to grab his well-loved medkit. "I don't think he'll mind me helping you patch up before I leave."

Miles gave in, snagging his arm on the way past and dragging Smiles into his bedroom. "I thought you didn't have any first aid credits?"

"I got it done a few weeks ago." Smiles opened up the kit while Miles tugged the shirt portion of his costume off, shivering at the sand that got dislodged. They sat down on the bed. "Who were you fighting?"

"Sandman, Mr Negative and Trapster. First big fight since-" Miles cut himself off. "Anyway, um, turns out Sandman was trying to protect himself from the other two. Peter had to stop me from attacking him."

Smiles frowned, barely pausing before he leaned over to clean the wound, the sterile wipe stinging. "Stop you?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Just- grabbed me. Explained what was happening. It was fine."

"Uh-huh." Miles was too slow to stop Smiles from lifting his arm up, revealing a circle of bruises around his wrist. "I hope you shocked him."

Jerking out of Smiles's grip, Miles haphazardly covered it with his other hand. "Tried to, before I realized it was him. It's fine."

"Is it?" Smiles pressed, his gaze soul-searching. When Miles didn't answer, he sighed. "I'll talk to him."

Scoffing, Miles shook his head. "Yeah, no, don't fight my battles for me."

"I'd argue it'sourbattle," Smiles pointed out, his lip twitching up at the corner. When Miles didn't smile, he ducked his head, attention falling back onto cleaning the wound. "He's such a dick," he mumbled.

Miles snorted, wincing when it jarred the cut. "Tell me something I don't know."

"I don't know how you put up with him," Smiles whispered. "He's so… self-righteous."

"I barely do," he admitted, sighing in relief when his counterpart finally leaned back - the wound taken care of with a bandage plastered on top. He knew he was lucky that it wasn't any deeper. Mr Negative's sword could have done serious damage. "Well, I'm fine. You've checked in on me. See you later."

Smiles chuckled, propping a hand back on the bed. "Sure. But first, why don't we go patrolling together? Or go on a walk, I guess. Don't want to aggravate that cut."

Miles blinked. "Um."

"It feels like forever since we talked, you know? It's all business with us - this happened in my world, investigate this person, whatever." Smiles shrugged. "Time for a bit of self-love, you know?"

"You've got Milzo for that," Miles said and then snorted. "Yeah, no, I'm not down for that kind of self-love."

Smiles nose scrunched, though a tiny smile gave him away. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. Also, ew."

"Not pretty enough for you?" Miles teased, lazily gesturing at his still-exposed chest, to Smiles's scoff. He reached for his nearest shirt, the one he had tossed when his phone had buzzed about Sandman, pulling it on. "What's he up to nowadays?"

"The usual. Brooding in dark shadows, doing his best Batman impersonation, that sort of stuff. You should say hi to him sometime instead of dropping in when the next crisis happens," Smiles encouraged, a challenge in his eyes.

Miles swallowed down a biting remark about not being invited. "It gets pretty busy around here. I can't go off the clock like the rest of you."

"We're all busy. We're all superheroes."

Something heavy thumped to the floor outside the room, jolting them both. Miles stood up, folding his arms. "..Next time," he said a beat too late, the words sour in his throat. "I'm tired, and Dad…"

"Okay," Smiles whispered, slower to stand. He hesitated and then pulled something out of his webshooter's hidden compartment. "Look, I know I shouldn't have, but my gut-"

Miles's eyes widened at the circular device pinched between Smiles's fingers. "Youdidsteal from us," he hissed, interrupting his counterpart.

"Miles-"

"What is wrong with you?" he snarled, snatching it, annoyance joining his anger when Smiles didn't try to resist.

"Something feels off about it," Smiles defended himself, putting a hand on Miles's shoulder that was brushed off just as quickly. "Your Dad isn't Captain, he's not even a detective-"

"Rub it in, why don't you?" Miles snapped, his free hand curling into a fist. "You know he stopped studying when-"

"That's not how I meant it!" Smiles cut in with a huff."Listento me. Why does he have evidence? Why has he brought it home, and why was he so protective of it? It doesn't make sense."

"Or, maybe you've got a chip on your shoulder because my Dad doesn't act like yours," Miles refuted.

"They're literally the same person."

"So are we, yet here we are."

"Miles," Smiles tried again, wrapping a loose hand around Miles's wrist when he went to take a step back, ignoring how tense it made him. "This is strange. This isn' least take it apart for me; find out what it is."

"Sure, I'll ask Dad what it is," Miles ground out, his jaw clenching.

Smiles's hold on him tightened, pressing into the same bruise Peter had made. "Don't. Please. Tell me later what an idiot I am. Do this one thing for me first."

Miles studied his counterpart for a long moment, straddling the line of indecision before finally giving in. "Fine. But leave; I'm done pushing Dad's boundaries for you."

Nodding, the movement stiff, Smiles finally backed off. "Okay, yeah. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," Miles brushed off, tucking the device into his own hidden compartment. "You're wrong about this, and you're going to get me into trouble over nothing."

"We'll see."

Miles rarely visited this part of the city; the grass and trees provided no easy escapes like the urban jungle he was used to. It unsettled him; it made him nervous. He couldn't help but glance around more often - hyperaware.

This place didn't make him happy.

However, a cemetery wasn't meant to give people warm fuzzy feelings.

He brushed a stray petal off his hoodie's sleeve, the afternoon sun warming his shoulders as he continued his trek towards the hum of cars. Uncle Aaron hadn't been very talkative, listening attentively to Miles as he filled the silence. He didn't give any answers to what he should do about Dad, but it settled something in his chest to talk it out with someone who might understand. It had helped him make a decision about the mystery object hidden in his webshooter.

It had been well past time to renew the flowers, the old bouquet dead in its pot. Neglected.

Hands in his pockets, Miles kept his head down. He wasn't the only person grieving a loved one; a smarting of people dotted around the place. He didn't want to be recognized.

The gravel pathway was so loud in his ear that he almost missed a familiar voice. One that had his subconscious whisperingthreatandfriendin equal measure. It was enough to make him pause, glancing up.

It was Peter.

Several rows away, kneeling in front of a tombstone, a bunch of yellow flowers in hand. Peter was in the same cemetery as Uncle Aaron, oblivious. He fumbled his next step, a foot sliding out too far,loudin the hushed quiet of the grounds.

He cringed, trying to recover and bustle away like nothing had happened - but a glance in Peter's direction told him he shouldn't bother. He had looked up. Giving into the inevitable, he stopped in place to lock eyes in a silent stare down.

"Why are you here?" Peter softly called out, climbing to his feet, his voice rough. If he didn't know better, he would think it was from crying.

Miles swallowed, barely stifling a bark of laughter. "For shits and giggles."

Whatever Peter was going to say fizzled out, the silence stretching a beat too long. "Okay," he said, and sat back down.

The building anticipatory tension in Miles's shoulders eased, though it refused to dissipate. Curiosity began to replace his nerves, though he knew he shouldn't pry. He tentatively walked towards Peter. "...Who are you here for? I thought… I thought your Uncle's grave was in Queens." At the sharp glance he got, Miles ducked his head. "It's pretty easy to google…"

"Because my whole life has been written about and dissected and smeared all through the presses," Peter bitterly mumbled, rubbing an eye with the edge of his palm. "I get it."

Finally at an angle where he could read the tombstone names, Miles's confusion only deepened. It wasn't the Parker family like he had suspected. "Stacy?"

"Yeah," Peter said, not elaborating. He was drawn into himself; the smallest Miles had ever seen him. A strange part of him wanted to comfort the other hero, maybe put a hand on his shoulder, but he knew he couldn't. "Please leave, Miles."

"Who were they?" Miles prompted. He couldn't do what Peter wanted; he would regret leaving him alone like this. But maybe talking about these people, Gwen and George Stacy, would help. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Peter leaned forward, tenderly wiping away a smudge on Gwen's tombstone. "She was my first love," he murmured. "My firsttruelove. Not a crush or a passing fling, but a forever burning flame. It still scorches me."

"What about MJ?" Miles blurted out before cringing. He shouldn't bring her up. Peter's long silence was all the answer he needed. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame her for moving on," he whispered. "She was always in so much danger. Learning I was Spider-Man, that I had failed to save Gwen… it was just the cherry on top. I don't know why she even stayed with me after finding that out."

"Because she loved you," Miles pointed out, tentatively sitting down beside Peter.

He huffed, burying his head in his hands. "Yeah, for all the good that did. My old Parker Luck. No one sticks around."

Miles didn't know what to say to that. Silence settled over them. Peter seemed lost in his thoughts, staring into the middle distance with a soft crease to his brows.

"I know you don't like me," Peter finally spoke up, refusing to meet Miles's startled eyes. "I've earned that. I'm just… not good at explaining myself, I guess. I say a lot and nothing at all."

"Okay…" Miles said slowly.

All in a rush, the words falling out into a sad heap, Peter admitted, "She's why. Why I don't like adding gadgets into our suits, why I was so scared of losing my secret identity, all of it. She died, and it was my fault. Because I thought I was making myself invincible, but instead, I had given myself exploitable weaknesses."

"Exploitable weaknesses?" Miles echoed.

Peter dug his mask out of his pocket. "I put a HUD set up in my mask lenses. All this information was laid out in front of me, giving me constant, up-to-date information on anything I might need. It was great… until Norman Osborn found out who I was. He managed to hack my system, change the specs, and render me blind at the wrong moment. It cost Gwen her life."

"I'm sorry that happened," Miles whispered, but something itched at him. "Where are the HUD schematics now?"

"I destroyed them. They were a liability."

"Were they, though?" Miles asked, earning a sharp glance from Peter. "You could have patched how Norman got access-"

"Someone else would hack it. It's how these things that people know who I am," Peter retorted, getting louder with every word. He huffed, seemed to realize where they were, and quietly said, "It's not worth it."

"...By your logic, my filter would have given me a big glaring weakness by now," Miles mumbled, folding his arms.

Peter buried his head in his hands for a long moment, just breathing. Miles fidgeted with the grass at his feet, knowing he shouldn't have pulled the tiger's tail but unable to resist the urge to defend himself. When Peter finally looked up, he locked eyes with Miles, their icey cold color freezing him in place. "You snapped at me about doing things as a hero 'for a reason.' Well, so do I. And maybe you should respect my experience instead of learning things the hard way."

Miles couldn't argue that logic. Lips thinning, he gave him a stilted nod. It was enough to satisfy Peter, whose shoulders slowly untensed. "I'm not denying their usefulness. I have my own filter now. I want anything added to our kit to be thought-out and well-designed. Is that too much to ask?"

"I get it," Miles whispered, warmth flooding his cheeks. This had been a mistake. He couldn't resist picking a fight with the other hero, even in a cemetery of all places. "Sorry. I'll leave."

Peter loosely grabbed Miles's hand as he stood up, though the action seemed to surprise them both. "You don't have to go. I think- it'd be good to introduce you to Gwen, uh, properly."

"Are you sure?" Peter nodded, and Miles slowly sank back down. "And maybe… maybe I can introduce you to my Uncle Aaron too."

"I'd like that."

Miles turned the device over in his hands, studying it. His gut churned, the betrayal of doing something his Dad didn't want making him vaguely nauseous. None of this felt right.

Various tools sat on the workbench before him, ready to help him pry this button-sized thing apart and see its inner workings. He still didn't know what it even did. No instructions had been included, and he couldn't feel anything to press.

He would have thought it was a smooth rock of some variety if he hadn't felt the minuscule amounts of electricity coming from its core.

Leaning back in the chair, he held it up into the artificial light of the storage room, wishing again that he had rented a place with a window. Somehow, he felt like daylight would better illuminate this glorified pebble and reveal its secrets.

Why was he even doing this for Smiles? Because his counterpart had a gut feeling? At least he could look forward to calling his other self an idiot.

With a sigh, he let his hand lazily flop onto his chest, the button device resting above his heart loosely held. Whatever. He'd get this over with and then sneak it back into the box. It would be like nothing had ever happened.

Sitting back up, he reached for the flat-head screwdriver, ready to pry it apart at the thin seam he had felt… and paused.

His callouses had disappeared. Hard earned, built up over two years of being Spider-Man, and they were gone.

Slowly, he turned his palm face up.

Hisscarswere gone.

The ones from the facility, that one from being scratched by a cat, the burn marks from Molten Man.

Miles's arms were bulkier than they should be. His muscles were lean, hiding their true strength. They didn't look like this.

A nasty feeling settled into his bones; the cold, dreaded certainty that he had made a mistake digging its teeth in. A mistake that he had made months ago and was only now learning.

One that would haunt him.

One that would changeeverything.

Still desperately trying to deny it, he opened the hand containing the button, the feeling painfully constricting at its apparent disappearance. It hadn't clattered onto the floor; heknewthat. He would have heard it,feltit. It was still on him.

Standing up, a wave of disorientation took hold as his head came closer to the ceiling than it ever had before.

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

He stumbled to the storage room's mirror like a fawn on new legs. He didn't use it often, and a thin layer of dust had settled onto its surface. Its use was restricted to patching the wounds he would otherwise need someone else's help with. The grime did nothing to conceal the horrifying reality he now faced.

Instead of his own face and body, his Dad's,Jefferson Morales'sface, reflected back at him. It wasn't a hallucination; it wasn't some wild nightmare, though he pinched himself to check. The button device had done this; it was the only thing he could think of.

A stranger had been living in his home wearing the face of his loved one, and he hadn't even known.

A choked whine strangled his throat, long and winded like a fox caught in a bear trap. His legs gave out with athump, his mostly healed knee protesting, but that ache was buried under the suffocating, all-encompassingpainshredding his heart to pieces.

Tears were a forgone conclusion but looked so wrong on a face that didn't crumple like his, whose eyes didn't turn red like his. Who he had never seen clutch himself like this, like despair was all he had.

He had failed, and he hadn't evenknown.

What kind of superhero was he?

A worthless one, a tainted one that curled in on himself andwepton the dirty ground, blurry vision obscuring the face staring back at him in the mirror.

One that dreaded to know the fate that had befallen his Dad, yet knowing with conviction that it was all his fault. He could have stopped this if he wasbetter.

Miles Morales cried because it was all he knew how to do.