When she was a child, Gwen was afraid of heights. She just couldn’t stand it: the drop in your stomach, the dizzy feeling when everything looks so small. In elementary school, she watched the other children climb trees, reaching higher and higher in a way that made it seem effortless. But when she followed them, her knees shook so bad she ended up picking at the grass instead.
She thought she wasn’t afraid of heights anymore. It’s just not an option when your job description is swinging from buildings and jumping off skyscrapers.
But then she’s standing on the top of the city, on the cold concrete of the tallest building she could find, and her heart is in her throat, and her knees might just give out from under her. In regular civilian clothes, no web slingers or wristwatch in sight, she feels naked. Unprepared.
Maybe Spiderwoman isn’t afraid of heights, but Gwen Stacy certainly is.
Spiderwoman would jump off with practiced ease and swing back up with near impossible grace. She wouldn’t even bother to look down at the dizzying drop below. Gwen is only here to jump.
It’s one of the reasons she didn’t bother suiting up; Spiderwoman wouldn’t do this. When they find her body, it’ll be the teenage girl Gwen Stacy, not strong, dependable Spiderwoman.
It’s been three weeks and four days since the Spot incident. But she remembers it viscerally, as though it had just happened.
Crumbling buildings. Sirens blaring every way. That look on Miles’ face fresh in her mind. She’d just barely heard his father’s voice, a small child’s cry; these new watches didn’t warn her. No one else saw. No one else heard.
She’d never moved so fast in her life. For a horrible moment, she was sure she wouldn’t make it. Then she was next to them, shuddering concrete on her back and tearing apart her muscles so that she nearly screamed, even through gritted teeth. It was dark under the wreckage, and she was certain that child’s cry was the last thing she’d hear. They were going to be crushed. She’d failed him again.
She all but collapsed when the weight lifted from her body and light flooded her vision. And again when Miles’ face came into view. She didn’t see him run to his father, didn’t hear the comical drop in his voice. She was too preoccupied in remembering how to breathe. Every muscle in her body ached with relief and for the moment she stood there, heaving, mask clinging to her face in a way that felt impossibly suffocating.
Then it passed, and she looked up and he was standing in front of her. Even when she couldn’t see his face, his shaking hands and those masked eyes, blown wide in raw emotion, gave it all away.
She knew he’d forgive her. That’s just how he is. He’d forgive her even when all she can ever seem to do is hurt. And he’d give her the chance to hurt him again.
He reached for her, and she reached for the nearest building. Her webs pulled her up and then she was swinging back into the fight, not daring to look back. If she focused, she could stifle the ache in her bones and the unsteady tremble in her hands.
She hasn’t talked to any of them since. The moment the fight had ended she was stepping through a portal, practically invisible under all the commotion. It was hours until Hobie found her in her universe, lying still on her bed, the watch he’d made cracked on her floor. She hadn’t meant to break it. But it didn’t really matter anyway.
Then she was sitting up, yelling, and she wasn’t even quite sure what she was saying but she made sure it hurt. Like she always does. The sound of her voice, loud and cracking, filled the tiny apartment. She wanted more than anything for him to be mad back at her. To hurt her like she would inevitably hurt him.
All he did was watch, until her voice went hoarse and she’d pushed hot tears away on the scratchy sleeve of her sweater. He was a mix of concern and pity that made her want to scream all over again.
He approached like you would to a wounded animal, and crouched so he was slightly shorter than her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, so her eyes stayed locked on the ground. It didn’t matter to him, because he reached up to ruffle the top of her hair and asked her to let them know when she felt better.
So that was that. A few days later the watch was back on her desk, good as new, and she shoved it into the farthest corner of her closet she could reach. She never called. A few times, Peter B, or Pav or Hobie, or even Peni has shown up in her dimension, clearly looking for her, and she’s careful to keep out of sight until they’re gone. It’s better this way.
She inches forward, eyes locked on the space in between her beaten up Converse and the edge. She wonders, vaguely, if any other Gwen had felt this way: heart thundering in her chest, hands clammy, scared. She wonders if they had the time to feel any way at all. If she’ll feel any way at all after she’s falling.
For a brief moment she considers turning around, back down the fire escape, back down the steps. She could leave, go practice with the Mary Janes and come home to sit on the couch with her dad watching TV tonight and pretend that everything isn’t ripping apart at the seams, that she isn’t on the precipice of cracking like glass.
She considers winter, almost two months ago, standing in a new universe, in front of her own grave, studying every crack in “Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy” engraved on stone like it could tell her something. Now she’s used to it, but for the first time, her heart sank into this strange, inevitable feeling.
It should have been raining. That would be more fitting. Instead, snow dusted the top of the headstone and clung to her hair. Instead of a black umbrella, she had a thick coat stolen from Hobie, big enough to swallow her whole.
To think that that was all she was made for, that that was her punishment for love. It felt like grief and dread and rebellion. Because then and there, Gwen knew she didn’t want that for herself.
But then she thinks of himand the hurt and ache and him and him and him. And turning back is impossibly scarier than falling. It’s only right, anyway. The tips of her shoes come right up to the edge.
For all the thinking she’s done in preparation, her mind goes strangely blank when she steps off. Instinctively, her hand attempts to close around a web slinger, and when her fingers meet her bare wrist it feels so wrong.
Then, suddenly, everything is all wrong, not in the way it was before, but in the way that maybe she doesn’t want to die. But maybe it’s too late. No, it is too late. The wind whistles loud in her ears, and how did she never realize how horrible falling feels? And, oh God, she’s going to die.
She’s going to die. She’s going to die. They’ll bury her in a grave with a headstone reading “Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy” like countless other graves and countless other headstones. She’s going to die.
She doesn’t want this for herself. It doesn’t matter. She’s going to die.
It’s too fast to process. One moment she’s falling and the next something solid collides with her. Arms wrap themselves around her waist and then she’s jolted up, up, up. She squeezes her eyes shut to the feeling of her feet dangling over the endless sky. She doesn’t need to look. The feeling of him pressed close to her, the bit of curled hair tickling her temple gives it away.
Relief and fear and crushing disappointment hit even harder than her feet slamming against hard concrete. He doesn’t let go for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. When he does, it’s all she can do to not collapse on her unsteady, wobbling knees.
“What the hell, Gwen?” She forces herself to look up. Miles’ mask is off— possibly the worst part, because she can see it all: the crease in his brows, the look in his eyes that’s grown to be indiscernible to her.
“What are you doing here?” The words are distant even on her lips. She’s supposed to die. That’s how it goes. That’s how it always goes. She falls, and she dies. Emotions crash one by one, like waves smashing into seaside rocks with undeniable fervency.
Relief, because she didn’t want to die, because she’s on blessedly solid ground, because he’s standing in front of her and she loves him so much it hurts.
Dread, because she wanted to die and maybe she still does, and the thought of coming home to her father and going to sleep waking up and doing it all over again is crushing.
Fear, because her heartbeat is pounding in her ears, and her ribs are so tight she momentarily forgets how to breath, and her head is spinning so that she all but loses her grip on the situation, and through it all, only one thought floods through her system, on the verge of begging to whatever higher being there is: Now here. Not now.
“What am I— What—“ He’s angry to the point of being incomprehensible, stumbling over his own words. She’s never seen him angry. Betrayed, and hurt, and confused, but never angry. “No! What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
“Shut up!” Why is she yelling back? She loves him. He hates her. He’s going to forgive her and she can’t live with it. She shrugs his concerned hands off of her arms. “You shouldn’t even be here! I never asked— I didn’t want—“
“Stop it!” He shoots back before she can gather her words. “Stop pushing me away! I’m trying to talk to you—“
He’s looking at her with that look again, and she can’t bear to meet it. Even when she stares pointedly at the ground she can still see his hands reaching for her in her peripheral. She wants it more than anything. She wants him near her so bad it’s actually painful, deep in her bones. It’s not fair. She tells him so.
“You’re not being fair.” Her mouth feels stuffed with cotton and dry.
“I’m not— you’re not being fair!” She can’t handle this. Any of it. He should’ve just let her die. It might have been kinder. “You can’t go and— and abandon me like that, just to save me right after!” His voice cracks and breaks with emotion. “And then you leave me again, no goodbye or anything—“ If she takes any more of this she might shatter like glass. “You can’t do that! You can’t just ignore me for weeks and think I’m not gonna care! And you can’t jump like that and think I’m not gonna catch you!”
“I can’t do this right now.” The scene around them blends and mixes into uncertain watercolor, wavering lines and blurs. It’s all she can do to keep the tremble out of her voice. It’s in every other part of her body, unsteady and incapacitating. She all but pleads, “Go home, Miles.”
“No!” He’s firm where she’s so plainly unstable. He’s everything she isn’t, everything she can never have. “I can’t do that, Gwen. You know that. You know I—“
“Don’t!” She visibly flinches. Her fingernails dig into the soft parts of her palm, hard enough to leave deep red marks. His posture turns rigid. She sucks in a breath, to remind herself she can still breathe. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it.” The air pinches in her lungs. “I can’t. I won’t.”
He’s quiet. Somehow, it’s worse than the yelling. The air is perfectly still, and there’s nothing to shield her from the fact that it’s them. Gwen, who only seems to know how to hurt, every muscle in her body held tight like it could protect her. Like she needs to be protected from him. Miles, standing too close and too far all at once. Too far, because she desperately misses his arms around her waist. Too close, because his eyebrows are furrowed in confusion and fear and his lip quivering ever so slightly in hurt. And she’s hurt him. And he’ll let her get close enough to hurt him again.
The thought of it makes her want to fling herself off the building. But he’d probably just catch her again. Her feelings on that matter are indecipherable.
“Why?” He’s the first to break the silence, precious and delicate like glass. It forces her to meet his eye. “Why’d you do it?”
Why did she do it? Because of him. Because she hurt him. Because she’s hurt everyone she’s ever loved. Because death loves Gwen Stacy. Because her father still misses her even when they’re in the same room, and she can’t blame him one bit. Because at night she thinks about Peter, her Peter, and she doesn’t doubt for a second that it should’ve been her.
“Because,” her voice is heavy on her tongue. Everything feels so heavy these days. “Things weren’t good. I don’t know.”
It’s a bullshit answer. He’s quick to call her out on it. “You could’ve come to me.” She really couldn’t have, but all her energy is spent and she doesn’t argue. “Or Hobie, or your dad, or anyone.”
He shouldn’t be worried for her. She doesn’t deserve to be worried for. He does anyway. “It’ll be good. You need to wait for it to be good.”
He really doesn’t get it. She can’t blame him.
“I’ve waited my whole life,” her throat is tight and sore and makes it near impossible to speak. “For things to feel good. Do you understand?” Her voice breaks. She can’t cry in front of him. She can’t. “Can you understand that, Miles? I can’t wait anymore.”
No answer. It isn’t like there’s a good response when someone admits to a lifetime of suffering.
His jaw remains set and tense, and his eyes are searching, darting around her face in a way that makes her feel so uniquely vulnerable. In a way, she is. Her words are the truth she’s kept trapped in her lungs ever since she was a little girl staring at her mother’s lifeless body in the coffin, the very thing that chokes her words and keeps her breath stuck in her throat. It lies between them, raw and bloody and entirely, irrevocably truthful in the way she swore she’d never share with anyone again. It’s all she can do to not squirm under his gaze.
He looks at her with all the fondness and care and heartbreak in the multiverse, and she tries to keep her face straight, she really does. But it’s simply not possible when Miles Morales gives you that look, and she can’t help it when the challenging glare she’s holding wavers, and her lips press together to hold back the beginning of tears.
She can’t cry. She won’t do it. Not when Miles is giving her that look, not when she’s already spilled her heart out in front of him. Gwen Stacy doesn’t cry, and neither does Spiderwoman.
It’s no use. He reaches for her and this time she doesn’t run away. She can’t. The soles of her shoes are rooted to the concrete below her, and there’s nowhere to run, no fight to be immersed into.
“Miles—“ she tries, but the words die in her throat, and he hugs her anyway, tightly as though she might slip away any moment. She can scarcely breathe with her heart stuck in her throat and her lungs filled with apprehension.
“I forgive you.” The words tumble from his mouth before she can deny him. Her heart sinks into her stomach all while a massive weight lifts from her shoulders. He forgives her. He forgives her. “At first— I don’t know. I wanted to be angry, I guess. And then you saved him, and I didn’t know what to be at all.” He swallows hard. She can feel it, the oh so slight tremble in his arms. “But— if I didn’t—“ Here, his voice breaks with the threat of tears. “I couldn’t live with myself if I never got the chance to say it. I forgive you.”
A beat passes and she melts into his touch, because it’s the same one she’s waited an entire year for and there’s no use trying to hide it.
“I’m sorry.” Her whisper is reverent, quiet because it’s meant for only his ears. The words feel cheap on her tongue. She’s the one apologizing, and yet it’s him that's tangling his hands into her hair and pulling her close.
“I know.” He’s quiet in the same way.
One day, she’ll apologize to him, and it’ll be real and good, and he won’t be the one with the burden of comforting her. She vows it to herself. For now, this is more than enough.
“You’re allowed to be mad,” she mutters, because it’s so important he knows.
“I know.” His fingers curl ever so slightly around the fabric of her sweater. “I was.”
And it’s not much, but it’s enough. For once, the cacophony in her head simmers. It’s still there, for sure: she’s too close, she’s an open wound and a sharpened knife, she’ll hurt him, she doesn’t deserve it— but it’s okay. For now, she doesn’t flinch at his touch, and she doesn’t choose to focus on the dread eating at her very being.
Her knees still tremble with the grounding reality that he could have been a moment off, she’d be broken and mangled on cracked concrete, the same way her Peter had been. And maybe she’d be dead, but her father would bury his only daughter, a closed casket the same way they’d done for him.
And she’s not. It’s a good thing. She convinces herself it is.
She doesn’t know how long they stand there, clinging to one another like they’re the last people in the world. His arms are still shaking, and she’s certain he can feel the way her whole body trembles. They’re so close, in fact, she can hear his heartbeat: steady, careful, and alive. They’re alive. She knows, because the warmth in her body reaches all the way to her fingers and the breeze is cold on the tip of her nose. It’s the most she’s felt in years.
“Let me take you home, okay?” There’s a certain thick quality in his voice, and when she pulls back, the corners of his eyeline are red. She nods, numbly, even if the thought of facing her father makes her want to be ill.
The rest is a blur in her mind. He wraps an arm around her, tighter than he needs to be, and she’s too worn to feel guilty. He jumps with her, one arm stretched out, ready to pull them back up, but, regardless, her breath catches in the freefall. If he notices her arms tightening around his neck, he doesn’t mention it.
Then his webs are jerking them up, and she can’t help it when relief crashes over her. His swinging is methodical, a steady beat: thwip, release, thwip, release. The same way Peter B. does it. Her heart aches to think that she can’t even remember their last conversation.
The way home is relatively short by webs. Gwen wonders, briefly, what the news will have to say about an unfamiliar Spider-Man carrying a civilian girl across the city.
When he sets her down, shoes meeting with the metal of the fire escape, she’s all too disappointed to face the cold rushing in to replace his hold on her. Even so, his arms linger by her side a moment too long. After everything, it’s this interaction that seems to snag, holding them captive, stuck in between everything they want to say and everything left unsaid.
She tries to push past it, pulling herself onto the windowsill and swinging her legs in, but something stops her. She pauses, turns, but when she opens her mouth nothing comes out. She can only watch as he grapples for words.
“I missed you.” It’s Miles who finds his voice first. It’s quiet and tentative and desperate in a way that makes her heart twinge. She’s all too aware of his fidgeting hands running over a bit of the seam of his suit, and his lips parted ever so slightly, as though breathless.
There’s so much she wants to say. That she loves him, that she missed him so much it filled all the space in her ribs, that she thinks maybe one day she’ll be happy he was here, but right now the thought of making it to another day feels a little nauseating.
But she can’t. The words don’t come out, and she can only hope that her face conveys what words can’t. Maybe he’ll get it. He’s always understood in the way no one else can.
He turns, hands on the railing, and that’s when it hits her that he’s leaving. And she didn’t want him here in the first place, she hasn’t seen him in weeks, but suddenly she doesn’t want him to go.
“Wait,” she blurts, louder than anticipated, and he pauses. A sort of desperation hangs around them, frayed and aching. She sticks out her hand.
“Friends?”
He looks at her, and it’s that moment she could tattoo on her brain to remember forever.
She studies his face, in case she never sees it again, in case this isn’t real, and she really is dead on the concrete sidewalk, or hanging from a single web, spine snapped in two. She drinks in every minute detail: the meticulous curve in his brow, the careful placement of his cheekbones, the shine in his eye that seems something like hope.
It’s that look that she’ll think about when she stumbles into the living room and hugs her dad, tightly because she was so close to not having that. It’ll still be there, ingrained into her memory, when she stares holes into her bedroom ceiling tonight and tries to convince herself that the abysmally empty feeling will go away, and again when she wakes up in the morning feeling drained and missing him so bad she feels ill about it.
He smiles and takes her hand, and it’s… not good, necessarily. But maybe it will be. And maybe that’s enough.
“Yeah. Friends.”