Gravitational Constants

Gwen Stacy has never been afraid of being alone. 

It is, after all, where she does her best work: stood apart from everything, observing the world and seeing what makes people tick. That’s the thing people don’t get about the loner—they see everything, and they’re part of nothing. She had thought it was to her benefit, when she was younger, standing at the sidelines of the world, watching everyone around her build things together. She had never considered it a loneliness, because, truly, Gwen wasn’t alone. She actually felt like she was part of something, the way she was. Maybe a bit distant from others, sure, but—part of something. 

Gwen and Peter met when they were nine years old, in her world. It’s—unusual, in terms of the multiverse. Gwen spent countless hours at the console, Miguel-cheeseburger in hand, flitting through realities, doing all she could do to learn about her place in it all. 

She didn’t find one. She’s not entirely sure she ever will.

She’d kind of hoped that maybe Miles could be one. 

She ruined that. 

The thing is; Gwen loves Miles. Not past tense, hasn’t stopped, loves Miles, but—well, sometimes love just isn’t enough. It’s a foundation built on muddied lands, requiring the supports to burrow in deep, and Gwen just… couldn’t get the foundation deep enough before it crumbled around him. 

Loving Miles, honestly, that was the easy part. Loving him is simple, like breathing. It’s hard not to; he’s just got one of those personalities that draws someone in and holds them close. It’s—intimate. Warm. Safe. If Gwen could have it her way, she would’ve lived in that love for the rest of her life, safe in its embrace, Miles’ face caught between her open palms, his presence akin to the kiss of salvation. 

Miles, the entire time she’s known him, has saved her. 

She can hardly say the same. 

It’s her own fault. It is. She knows who to blame. 

Gwen and Peter met when she was nine years old. Fourth grade. Their classes had been across the hall from each other. Peter dropped his books on the ground; borrowed books from the school library. Some jerk with a burgeoning superiority complex had tripped him, could’ve hurt him, and yet, it’d been Gwen’s ass in the hot seat at the principal’s office, being informed of personal responsibility and how it doesn’t include her trying to personally ensure the kid would need early braces after she was done. 

She’d always had a strong sense of justice. Perks of being a cop’s only kid, she guesses. Dad made sure to instill values into her. Only thing he hadn’t managed to instill into her was a compulsion to abide by laws.  

Dad hadn’t been happy, but mostly because Gwen had escalated too far. 

“You think your fists gonna solve everythin’, kid?” he’d asked her after the [deserved] lecture, arms crossed over his chest, “That’s not how we do things, you know that.” 

Peter hadn’t said much, when Gwen had started wailing on the oversized meatbag that thought it’d be funny to send Peter sprawling. If Gwen’s honest with herself, she didn’t really care that she didn’t get a token of gratitude from him; the truth of it is, it could’ve been anyone who was tripped, and her reaction would’ve been the same. She’s always hated bullies, and, for her, that’s all the fight had been about—her lack of tolerance towards a bully. That’s who she was, and she was never going to apologize for it, even though in the days following her suspension, her friends steered a bit clear of her. 

She understood it. Ultimately, she didn’t care, really. She could take being alone. 

Peter hadn’t said much when she got back, either. Or, rather, what he said just didn’t need the words. Just—one day, she was sitting alone at lunch, and suddenly, there’s this gangly kid with oversized glasses and books about photography in hand, introducing himself as Peter Parker in a soft voice and inviting himself to join her. Not even waiting for her assent, just—sitting down, as if things were normal, and, at some point, they just became so. 

She loved Peter. Still does, to be fair, even though, at this point, she’s lived more years without him than with him. It’s… it’s not the same as the way she loves Miles. It was certainly never romantic, not really, not like how it was for Miles. Not for her, and not for Peter. 

Peter was… he was the first person who ever really got her. 

Her dad—he tried. Really, he did. And, to an extent, he did get her. Anything she threw herself into, Dad would support as best as he knew how. His support, his presence, it follows her everywhere—in the aged pictures of her toothy smile, standing proud with her ribbon in her tiny grip, her dad’s hand resting on her shoulder—in the percussion of her drum, pounding and loud even in their tiny apartment, their neighbor’s complaints soothed by the promise of a good bottle of Jack and numerous apologies—in the blue that interlaces through her suit as webbing, his words of duty hanging on her heart. 

But Peter really got her. He didn’t have to work hard, didn’t have to squint like Dad sometimes would have to, didn’t have to squeeze himself into the tiniest of cracks in the audience to watch Gwen vault herself through the air—Peter just got her. Captured her in his lens, figured her out without even a question asked. 

And so did Miles. 

Maybe that’s what hurt her the most. The fact that Miles just got her. Maybe… maybe it felt like he was taking something from her, when he did that, when he treated her like she was something precious, like something there was only supposed to be one of, ever. 

Gwen’s always been a performer. Piano recitals as a little kid, gymnastic meets, ballet performances, shows at local dive bars she wasn’t old enough to drink in with her band. Standing in front of a crowd; that’s her bread and butter. Floor routines, stretches and vaults. Pirouettes, hands held up high, in control of her muscles. Fly Me To The Moon, fingers running across ivory keys. Thumping punk rock, pouring out her heartbeat into the rhythm of a song. 

Running through Chelsea, throwing herself into peril. 

Always a performer; rarely genuinely seen. 

Caught by Peter—in the viewfinder of his camera, in the glint of his gaze. 

Caught by Miles—in the fervor of his touch, in the softness of his whispers. 

Gwen’s okay with being alone. 

Except when she isn’t. 

Miles has a place in her heart that scares her sometimes. Sometimes, she can ignore it, can move on as if it doesn’t hurt to hold him at arm’s length, but sometimes, she imagines Miles right next to her, his hand resting on her waist, whispering about a future she can’t picture. 

She knows she’s unjustified, to feel jealous. She does. It’s not right, to wish for something she herself left in tatters. It’s unfair to Miles, for her to feel this rage when she thinks about Miguel taking her place in Miles’ life. She knows she’s unfair. She knows it. 

“He could hurt him again,” she whispers. 

Hobie looks at her. 

“Anyone could,” comes his argument. 

Hobie’s is a place where Gwen oftentimes feels more at home than even her own. Maybe it’s because of the safe haven created for her when Hobie realized the depths of her loneliness, or maybe it’s because Hobie is the only person she knows in the entire universe who is entirely satisfied with his own company—she doesn’t know. What she does know is, in Hobie’s space, her feet kicked up on the lower hammock he’d set up for her when it was clear that she needed a place to exist, with small posters he’d procured from her own dimension in an attempt to make her feel more at home—she feels like she’s seen, too. 

She loves Hobie, too. It’s not romantic like Miles, or platonic like Peter—it’s something less than both, but somehow just as big to her. 

“Aren’t you supposed to just agree with me?” she groans, pressing the pillow into her face, breathing in the sour musk that permeates every surface of Hobie’s canal boat. 

It’s a few days after Pav had seen Miguel and Miles training together, all but confirming the worst of Gwen’s concerns. It… Gwen’s been taking it well. 

“Where’s the fun in life if I just agree?” Hobie spouts off. 

She can practically hear the roll of his eyes in his amused tone, as if Gwen’s just said something cartoonishly silly. 

She loves him. He’s probably the coolest singular person she’s ever gotten to meet. In his world, her variant is long since passed, as her variants are in so many versions of the world, and he had been a fan of that version of her. The Mary Janes, in his universe, were one of the biggest bands in the world; their broken records making up some of the decoration that line the hull of Hobie’s ship. At first, she was a little weirded out by it all, sure, but really just concerned, mostly; with Hobie being weird around her, wanting her to be someone she’s not.  

And—well, Hobie’s weird in general, but he’s never wanted that from her. There’s a comfortability to it, the way Hobie treats her. A lot of Spiders look at her and see The Girl Who Fell. The one they couldn’t save. Even in Hobie’s world, she’s got a similar story, sans a Spider to try and catch her, Hobie too young and bitten too late to even try. She’s a legend in almost every universe, maybe even her own. A cautionary tale. 

But with Hobie—she’s just Gwen. 

“It’s Miguel,” she grumbles, messing with the pillow as she glares at Hobie, his hip leaned against the edge of the counter, shirtless and casual, fiddling with the incense stick she had to help him find. 

Hobie flicks a glance at her. “And?” 

“What, that’s not enough for you?” she asks, incredulous. 

He snorts. “It’s got nothin’ to do with you or me.” 

“He’s our friend,” she replies, rolling her eyes. 

He doesn’t reply, getting himself distracted as he goes to grab the incense holder, frowning when he realizes that it’s no longer where he apparently remembers having last seen it, where Gwen had placed it before he’d picked it up to fiddle with it. It’s how most of Hobie’s mess starts—he’ll pick something up, just for the satisfaction of something in his hands, rolling the object between his fingers, only to drop it somewhere entirely new. He never even realizes he does it.

Gwen sits up, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“He’s our friend,” she repeats, voice going low. 

“Don’t hear me arguin’ with you on it, mate,” Hobie says, a bit distractedly, more focused on looking for the holder. 

“Then why didn’t you agree?” she asks, pulling herself out of her hammock. 

Hobie pauses, flicking his gaze up from the lower cabinets to look at her, crouched down to take a peek into the chaos that threatens to pour out of the open doors. 

“Don’t try to make it somethin’ it’s not, Gwendy,” he says. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Gwen grumbles, grabbing the incense holder off of the top of the pile of laundry where he’d left it, holding it out to him as she slides to a seat atop the counter. 

“Cheers,” he murmurs with a grin, going to slip it from her grasp only to frown when she holds fast. 

“Why aren’t you concerned about Miles?” she asks him point-blank. 

Hobie doesn’t seem bothered. “‘Cuz he’s wouldn’t get himself into anything he couldn’t handle, Gwendy. You know that.” 

“That’s literally all he does,” she replies, scowling as Hobie manages to successfully pull the holder, ignoring his self-satisfied smirk he levels her with, “Miles is constantly getting himself in over his head.” 

“More than lot o’ us? I think not,” he responds haughtily, rolling his eyes as carefully inserts the incense stick into the hole, “You worry too much about him.” 

“Someone has to!” Gwen all but snaps, throwing her head back, letting it thump against the cabinet. 

“Ain’t said worryin’ is a bad thing,” Hobie replies, shaking his head, wicks bouncing, “I said you worryin’ too much.” 

“So you are worried about him,” she states, rather than asks. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies as he lights the incense, “Just not when it comes to Bossman.” 

“You hate Miguel,” she says, knowing the reminder is unnecessary—Hobie’s dislike for Miguel far predated Miles, after all. He’s been saying it since day one. 

Hobie watches the incense burn for a moment before his gaze slides back to Gwen. He looks astounding unimpressed, even for him; somehow managing an exaggeration of his usual bored look.

“And?” Hobie asks her, fiddling with his lobe piercing the way he does when he’s getting annoyed, rolling the hoop through the hole, “What of it?” 

“He could hurt him. Again,” she says, scowling, “I don’t want him to get hurt again.”

“Life’s a lot of hurt,” he replies, shrugging, “Can’t stop him from hurtin’. Just be there to pick him up when he tumbles and you’ve done what you can.” 

“I don’t want to just stand by,” Gwen grounds out. 

Hobie tugs on lobe, long since gone greyscale, staring at her. The smoke from the incense, a light trail of scent, lofts its way up through the air, spilling scent as the slight fire slowly burns its way down the tinder of the stick. 

“Ain’t your life. Not your choice to be makin’. You made yours already, right?” 

It’s not that Gwen doesn’t understand Hobie’s point. To a degree, she even can admit that he’s right. It isn’t her choice, it isn’t her say. It’s Miles’ life, Miles’ choice, and she knows, knows, that Miles is more than capable of deciding for himself, but—well: she knows what it’s like, to be someone who hurt Miles. It’s going to be something she lives with for the rest of her life, the shame of bringing Miles pain, of failing him in any sort of way. She doesn’t want Miles to experience that again. By anyone’s hand. Miles deserves better. Miles deserves more. 

She should’ve been better. 

She doesn’t talk to Hobie or Pav for a while after that night with Hobie. She spends her afternoons throwing herself into her city, running on the edge of the skyline, tossing herself into danger, and getting a little banged up in the process. She’s—well, she’s careless, there’s no two ways about it, but it’s easier to have to stitch up a stab wound than deal with feelings any day, so she’s not complaining at all. The distraction is more than necessary, it’s essential. It’s therapeutic. It’s—

“What’re you even doin’ out there?” Dad sighs out, looking down at her with disappointment, “What, you tryin’ to become a pincushion?”

Maybe it’s a bit on the side of self-flagellation, if she’s honest. 

She frowns up at him, vision a bit bleary at the edges with all the pain she’s trying to stomach until the Moltrin can pick up the slack. She’s, admittedly, a bit more banged up than normal. Kind of her fault, kind of not. Occupational hazards. Nothing crazier than what any other Spider deals with. Just—one of Kingpin’s guys got the drop on her. Happens sometimes. 

“Sorry ‘bout all the blood,” she tries (half-asses), and Dad—yep, not amused, he’s not amused, “I, uh… maybe I can mop it all up?” 

“It’s in the grout,” he grumbles, glaring down at the floor that used to be mostly clean, until Gwen had staggered her way in there, a pocket knife still embedded into the flesh of her upper thigh.

The pocket knife now lays atop the stupid pink fuzzy bath mat that she can’t see Dad ever choosing to buy, which is now soaked pretty liberally with her blood, bright red and staining each fiber of synthesized cotton substitute.

As if he can read her mind, he adds, “And I liked that mat. Couldn’t you have laid down another mat?” 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m bleeding out,” she says with a dry smirk, tugging the thread, hissing when it snags as she pulls the needle through her skin. 

Maybe she needs to go hit up a medical supply store next time and not a Dollar General. Unfortunately for Gwen, she’s got a lot of things, but financial riches is not one of those things.

At least Dad’s not trying to convince her to go to the emergency room again. Thank God for small favors, right? 

If she’d let Miles meet her Dad, he’d probably be agreeing with him. Knowing Miles, he’d be begging her to at least come see his mom; a professional, something. 

“Seriously—since when’re you this sloppy, kid?” Dad grouses, arching an eyebrow down at her, “And you’re sat on the edge of the tub—you couldn’t have turned around, bled into the tub?” 

“I will consider that the next time I’ve got a knife sticking out of me, Dad, I promise,” she says half-heartedly, gritting her teeth as she begins to tug the wound closed. 

The gasp of pain is barely past her lips before her dad is suddenly kneeling in her blood, the mat squishing under his knee as he eases the needle from her hands. She hesitates in allowing it, but she can reason that it’ll be quicker if the person who isn’t in pain just does the dirty work. Instead, she nods her assent, gripping the edge of the bathtub while Dad finishes up the job, the thread’s pull almost worse than the actual stab wound. Honestly, that’s what’s always been worse for her about getting stabbed—the stitches after. 

Dad may be annoyed with her, but at least he cares enough not to ask too many questions while the miracle of modern science, the painkiller, struggles to do its job. He merely gets her set up on the couch, gentle with her aching bones and sore wrist, dropping the throw blanket across her legs before proceeding to make her the World’s Best Grilled Cheese as a comfort meal. It’s only made better by the fact that he joins her in front of the TV, a bag of sour cream and onion chips placed in the gap between her un-punctured leg and the sofa cushions. When he shoves a two-liter in the gap, Gwen can’t help the laughter that bubbles its way through her chest, and Dad looks almost embarrassed by his own amusement. 

It used to be that, when Gwen is going through it, Dad didn’t ask questions. He’s not the most emotional guy, even less than she can be sometimes. Dad’s the kind of person who thinks he needs to be the most serious man in any room he walks into, even when it’s his little girl painting his face with cheap dollar store lipstick and eyeshadow. 

Dad’s learned better though, since she ran away, and so Dad says, in the middle of a rerun of Desperate Housewives, their guilty pleasure show, 

“So, what’cha do?” 

Gwen bristles a bit. Dad doesn’t even seem bothered, his hand over the back of the couch, his gaze still on the TV. 

“Uh, you know,” she mumbles, trying to refocus on Gaby’s drama, “I, uh, handed Kingpin’s ass to him. All in a day’s work, y’know?” 

“Language,” Dad warns, the reds and yellows of the scene bouncing in the cerulean of his eyes, “And that wasn’t what I meant.” 

She knows what he meant. And she knows that he knows that, too, since he’s far too casual otherwise. 

Dad’s a good guy. Good cop, yes, sure, she hears that a lot, and she’s seen the results, but—even outside of the cop thing, Dad really is a good guy. Dad’s respectful. He sees so much good in so many people. She hears sometimes, from guys at the station when she drops by to meet up with him after his shifts, about a guy that almost seems foreign from the Dad she knows, where he was so angry after her mother’s death that people were hoping not to cross his path. 

She’s never met that guy. She’s only ever met the understanding guy, the guy who encouraged her to do anything, to be anything. The dad who was the loudest in the crowd at the gymnastic competitions, who accidentally ripped her tights in the wash that one time before a show and scoured Manhattan to find a new one in time for showtime. 

“I’m worried about Miles,” she says after a few minutes of silence. 

To date, Dad’s never met Miles in person. It’s her own fault. What was worse was—Dad wants to meet Miles. He’d been half the reason he started wearing the trans flag above his badge, after all—show Miles that he was not only excited to meet him, but open to everything about him. 

Somehow though, in spite of never actually meeting him, Dad had formed his own opinion about Miles, which he expresses thusly, muting Desperate Housewives: 

“Who’s tryin’ to hurt ‘im?” 

Honestly—George Stacy is probably the most supportive dad in the multiverse. 

“You, uh,” Gwen starts, nervous, picking at her fingernails, trying to avoid watching him but failing miserably at it, “You remember Miguel?” 

Dad finally drags his eyes from the TV, snapping his head towards her so quick she’s almost worried he’s broken something. 

“What’s that punk up to?” he asks, no-nonsense, Captain Stacy voice on. 

Like he’s about to march in her room, find her watch, and figure out how to get to Miguel himself. Wouldn’t be the first time he tried, honestly. After all—Gwen got her distaste for bullies from somewhere. 

“It’s—it’s not like that,” she’s quick to say, knowing this could go in a bad direction if she allows him to keep his cop hat on. Immediately, he calms a little, but he keeps his eyes on Gwen, waiting for her to figure out how to explain herself. 

She lands on: “We think they’re… you know.” 

Dad’s brow lifts, and he frowns. “I… don’t?” 

Gwen sighs, dropping her head. She really doesn’t want to say the words, but: 

“Dad. They’re… together.” 

She peeks up to catch Dad blinking, drinking in the information for a minute before settling for the oh-so-eloquent, “Oh,” nodding to himself as he visibly consolidates the information, marinating before asking, 

“And we’re not happy ‘bout that?” 

“… no,” Gwen replies, slowly, still unable to pick up her head, fisting her hands into the blanket, “We’re not.” 

“Okay,” Dad says again, nodding once more before adding on, “What’s the problem?” 

“Besides the obvious?” Gwen asks, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ground herself in the leather of the couch, in the scratchy knit of the blanket. 

“Beside the obvious.” 

Gwen bites the inside of her lip, “I just want to keep him safe.” 

Dad makes a humming sound at that. She can just imagine him nodding; face illuminated by the television’s light, expression contorted in contemplation, crumbs on the front of his shirt from the chips. 

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” 

Her next words come out practically as a whisper. So low she barely hears them. 

“All I do is fail him.” 

It’s almost a surprise that Dad hears at all. Even more so that he can respond. 

“Don’t worry about failin’. Worry about bein’ there in the first place. You do that, you can’t fail at all.” She can feel his shrug, his body shifting under her outstretched legs. “Did it with you, and you turned out pretty okay.” 

Gwen blinks, looking up at Dad. It’s almost laughable, how casually he could deliver  a line like that and return to eating chips like it’s nothing, watching the show on mute. 

“You trust Miles, right?” Dad asks her, eyes glued to the screen. 

“Yeah,” she answers quickly, not even thinking about it, “But I don’t trust Miguel.” 

He shrugs and says, “You don’t gotta. That’s not your problem.” 

She stares at him for a minute. 

“When’d you get so wise?” she asks incredulously, hoping her tone comes off as teasing. 

“Probably about—twenty years ago? You were there. We celebrate it once a year, remember? You asked for a pony at least fourteen of those years.”

She breathes a laugh, leaning in so she can press her forehead into his upper arm, nudging him slightly. 

“It was twelve,” she corrects, playful in a way she struggles to feel under the weight of everything, sitting back once more. 

“Whatever you say, boss.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. Nothing between them besides the buzz of a TV still showing a TV show they’re neglecting to watch. Nothing, but everything—understanding. Safety. Acceptance. George waits. 

“I… he deserves everything good,” she whispers softly, the playfulness falling away. 

Dad reaches with his other arm, pressing his hand onto the back of her neck. 

“He’s got a lotta good y’know—friend like you looking after ‘im.”

Friend like Gwen. 

Like a friend was what Miles wanted her to be. 

Like a friend was what she wanted to be. 

It shouldn’t be funny, it shouldn’t be laughable, but—honestly, the idea that Miles would look at anyone else the way he once looked at her, and that anyone else being Miguel O’Hara? The man who told her that Miles didn’t have a place in the multiverse? The man who sent her home just for suspecting that Miles’ escape from HQ had anything to do with her? A man who looked at Miles and wrote him off like he was just some kid? 

It’s… it’s not funny. 

Ironic, maybe. 

Hypocritical, actually. 

Downright fucking hypocritical, genuinely. 

She’s just not sure if it’s her being hypocritical, or if it’s Miguel—and she hates how unsure of it she is. 

“I’m probably—it feels like my fault, kind of,” Gwen admits to her dad, her confidant; words expressed in the safety of their closeness. 

Dad doesn’t even blink. “Little self-important, huh?” 

She laughs humorlessly, burrowing in a bit with her forehead until Dad shifts, lifting up his arm to pull her in as carefully as he can, drafting her into the safety of his embrace. 

“You’ve really been listening to your therapist, huh?” she asks him. 

“And you haven’t been listening to yours,” Dad shoots right back. 

She bristles despite knowing he’s right. In her defense—kinda hard to listen to advice from someone who she can only give a percentage of the information to. But therapy was a promise she made to Dad, one she tries hard to keep in spite of its futility. 

“You know, I’ve really been making an effort with it,” she says, a touch defensive, “Little hard to avoid explaining about all the dimension stuff, though.” 

“Hey, credit where credit’s due, you’re tryin’,” he’s quick to say, holding his hands up, “But you know you gotta cut yourself some slack.” 

Slack. Like that’s not the antithesis to a Spider’s very nature. 

“Am I—“ Gwen starts, and then stops. 

Dad doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to guess what she’s trying to get out. He merely sits there, waiting, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder. 

She tries again. Manages it this time. 

“Am I good?”

Dad doesn’t answer right away, either. He lets the question sit between them, uncomfortably weighty, his thumb still rubbing circles, his breath still even. He won’t ever be able to realize the entirety of the question, she knows. After all, there’s a multiverse full of George Stacys, who made a sacrifice and became part of what makes a Spider, who are unequivocally good in every universe they’re in. 

But there’s only one of her. It’s almost haunting, how in all the universes, she’s the only one who’s even made it to be this old. She’s alone in it all—a world where a Gwen wasn’t a sacrifice. 

What is a Gwen if they don’t fall? 

Alone in her life, and alone in the whole of the multiverse. 

“Kid,” Dad begins, “You know nothin’s that simple.” 

And he’s right. He’s always right. She hates it. She loves it. 

“I feel like I’m not,” she admits to him, playing with the cuticle of her thumb, biting her lip, “I just—I should be happy for Miles.” 

Dad hesitates, physically hesitates—his breath even pausing for a moment—before he says, 

“You know you don’t gotta be, right, kiddo?” 

Gwen can’t help but pull away a bit, looking up at her father, surprise hitting her in the chest. 

“It’s the right thing to do,” she argues. 

Dad shrugs. 

“Different ways to be right, Gwen,” he tells her, before he smirks, “You taught me that, y’know. You do things your way, stay true to yourself, and—it’ll work out.”

He drops a heavy hand atop her head, his smirk softening into a smile.

“You’re one of one, you know, kiddo. You march to the beat of your own drum. Figuratively and literally, I guess.”

Gwen can’t help the laugh that escapes her, and Dad’s smile only broadens.

“You’ll figure it out.” 

Gwen hesitates before she asks, voice quieter than she’d like to admit, 

“And if I don’t?” 

Dad’s smile falters. But only a little. The self-assurance doesn’t. 

“Then I catch you when you fall,” he says, no understanding of the multiverse, “And we help you get back up.” 

She’s alone in the multiverse. In all the universes, there isn’t another Gwen Stacy like her. Gwen Stacy falls for Spider-Man. That's her story. That's who she was supposed to be.

There's no spaces for someone like her, who broke the mold. 

But she’s not alone in that. 

There aren’t any other Miles Moraleses, either. Not like this one. For all the hours she spent looking at all the variations of her life, she spent the same amount finding how different Miles is from all his variants. She’s met countless Peter Parkers, countless Mary Janes—but nothing like Miles, who stared down the whole of Spider Society and changed everything about it in a moment. 

She wanted to protect that. Wants to protect that. She thought romance would be the way to do it. 

But maybe it’s not that complicated. 

Maybe it’s as simple as Miles standing in front of her, admitting to a truth she felt for Miles herself: 

“He… he makes me happy, Gwen,” he says, voice soft, liquid honey eyes hidden behind thick lashes and heavy guilt, “So happy that I… I don’t think I deserve it. You know?” 

And she did. 

And she does. 

It’s why she’d run from Miles, after all. It’s why she couldn’t handle someone looking at her like she was so unique, so worth treasuring. It's why she couldn't let it be her place. She couldn't let herself depend on him in that way. Wouldn't have been fair to him. 

“I… know,” she confesses, fighting against her own fear to admit it, “I get what it’s like.” 

She didn’t want to be a treasure, after all. 

She just wanted to be Gwen. 

In the same way that Miles wanted to be Miles.

Two sides of the same coin, really, in every way except one: Gwen didn’t want to be treasured. But Miles? He deserved to be. And maybe… no, definitely…

Miguel could. He could hurt him again, she knows. Damage him. But—

Miles wanted to believe. He wanted to leap. He wanted to try. In a lot of ways, but especially in this way, he's braver than her. 

So she fights back her own sadness and jealousy and adds, “Gotta tell ya, though, Miles, it’s—it wasn’t exactly the best kept secret. You two are kinda bad liars.” 

Because Gwen is okay with being alone, with being one of one, because she has everything she wants. Maybe not in the way she wants, but—hey. She already stepped out of the mold for Gwen Stacys. Who knows what else the multiverse could have in store? 

“You’re not disappointed? In me?” Miles questions, and Gwen blinks, the idea so ludicrous that she can’t even comprehend it. Needlessly, Miles elaborates, “For loving him. That we… couldn’t do it.” 

Gwen, for once, doesn’t think too hard about it. She decides to pull a play from George Stacy’s book. 

“It never even crossed my mind,” she says, and, over Miles’ shoulder, Hobie’s wearing this shit-eating, self-satisfied grin she’s going to have words with him about about later, “I just want you to be happy, man.”

And then, because she can’t resist: 

“I don’t approve of him though. Personally? I think you could do better. A lot better—”